Ultra Violet
by Mlee.Write
Summary: A collaboration between myself and Starry19. Jane and Lisbon's undercover stint went so well that the FBI has decided to extend it. Can they spend a month posing as a married couple? And what about Marcus Pike? Rated T/M
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Starry and I are teaming up for a story inspired by the amazing episode Violets. We'd love your feedback ! Without further ado:

_**Ultra Violet**_

There were certain questions in life a woman had to answer for herself. Questions like, how many years does she wait for her best friend to notice that she's a _woman_ and how many chocolate chip pancakes can she eat and still button her jeans? The answers were: twelve years and as yet to be determined.

Teresa Lisbon licked a drop of melted chocolate off the end of her fork and considered that she might have forgone the whipped cream. It was nine-thirty at night, after all. Wasn't there an eating at night rule that meant the carbs would go directly to her thighs?

It didn't matter. They were self-pity carbs.

Marcus was having banana pancakes, no whipped cream. His loss.

The diner was small and not much to look at, but it was clean and the food was good and cheap. The benches were old red vinyl, sagging in the middle from years of use, and their waitress was forty-going-on-sixty. It was exactly the way a diner was supposed to be, right down to the sugar dispenser and the burnt-but-not-Starbucks-burnt coffee. It felt somehow like the safest place she could possibly be at nine-thirty on a Friday night. The cicadas chirping outside made it even homier.

"Pancakes good?" Marcus asked. He was studying her like was he was afraid she was having a terrible time, like she was going to bolt.

"Perfect," she replied. "Exactly what I needed."

He really was cute to look at, she thought. His hair was a little messy and he filled out his tee-shirt nicely. He clearly took care of himself. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting she could appreciate a handsome man in a dark tee and leather jacket.

She was aware that the waitresses had noticed him too. Hard not to. They were practically the only people in the diner.

There was even a family sitting on the other end of the room, looking bleary-eyed and hungry. No doubt they'd pulled over from some road trip. The wife's hair was matted in the back, like she'd been sleeping in the car, and the husband was mainlining regular coffee. The kids were sullen, glued to their phones, whining about Wi-Fi.

She hadn't started making these observations before Jane, she realized. She relied more on instinct than deduction back then.

At the thought of Jane her eyes flicked back to the man in front of her. The man who decidedly not Jane.

Deduction told her that Marcus wasn't egotistical like Mancini—he willingly accepted their help without a bit of male pride. He was open, confessing his attraction to her immediately after they met. He was better off than FBI agent should be—that was an expensive jacket and a Rolex—family money? Definitely not on the take, though. If he was, he'd hide his toys. She suspected he wanted kids or some kind of family because instead of driving a death trap capable of going 140 miles per hour—which she assumed he could afford—he picked a practical sedan with a decent safety record. And he kept it clean. He was fastidious. And he'd turned her heated seat on for her, despite that fact that Texas evenings weren't her version of cold. He was considerate.

So if her observations told her that Marcus Pike was basically the most perfect man ever, then why did her instinct twinge just a bit—off?

"That was a bit awkward back there with Jane," he said, after taking a sip of his coffee. He looked guilty. "I asked Wylie and he said you two weren't involved."

She raised an eyebrow, irrationally embarrassed. Did the whole office talk about her love life? Did they think she pined for Jane? Whipped cream melted on her fork and dripped onto her plate. "You asked Wylie?"

"Yeah, I didn't want to intrude, I hope that's okay?" Marcus's eyes were chocolate brown and earnest. Hell, his whole face was earnest. Open. She was willing to bet it was apparent when he lied, like a giant neon sign blinking. No guessing at his motives.

Also, she totally noticed when he glanced down at her cleavage. She'd never caught Jane. Not even once.

"No, that's fine," she conceded. She wondered why it embarrassed her that Marcus had asked about the two of them. It was reasonable to wonder if they were involved. Fischer and Abbott had certainly thought so. They were friends with a long history. To a stranger that might look like a romantic relationship. "I'm glad Wylie cleared it up for you," she said and smiled. She set her fork down on the chipped Formica table.

She was glad, because Marcus Pike asking her out on a date had been like a giant slap to the face. He had put all his cards on the table, held nothing back. She could have rejected him, could have been cruel to him, and he didn't care. He let her know where she stood so there could be no mistake about his intentions. It took guts to do that. It told her that he was confident, that he could handle the sting of rejection.

And just like that she realized she'd been mired in the vague comments and forgotten confessions and casual touches that had been Patrick Jane for too long. Jane was content to stay stagnant—to use the same cup or couch or car until the end of time. He didn't move on. He didn't commit. He'd die an eccentric old bachelor who fascinated the biddies at the nursing home.

And she'd been waiting for him, and wasting her time, and getting old.

She liked Marcus. She liked that opened doors for her, that he didn't guess (correctly or incorrectly) what she was going to order, that he told her she was beautiful without making it a joke or a friendly gesture. Marcus was exactly what he seemed. There were no mysteries there.

He liked her and he thought she was pretty and he wanted to sleep with her. There was a power in knowing that he wanted her sexually. It made her feel sexy and strong and worthy, somehow. If she tried to kiss him right now, he wouldn't laugh at her or look at her like she'd lost her mind.

The whipped-cream and chocolate had melted on her tongue and soaked into her blood, giving her a sugar rush. It was late but she was geared up, eager to do something, go somewhere, not _think._

"Do you want to see a movie?" she asked, holding her decaf coffee in front of her and letting the heat seep into her hands.

"Sure." He brightened visibly and she thought about him resting his arm along her shoulders in the theater. She wondered if guys still copped a feel that way or if that ended in middle school.

She flipped through the listings on her smart phone and they settled on a thriller that was probably ridiculous—something about a plane hijacking-but better than the romantic comedies or animated movies. He paid the tab—wouldn't hear of her paying—and offered her his coat when they went outside. The kids across the room were still whining.

They took separate cars because they'd come straight from the FBI offices, and she turned on an 80's station as loud she could stand it. She sung along, and she did not think about how Jane would have insisted on going to the old-timey theater with the black and white movies. She didn't think about Grace Kelly or Ginger Rogers or Marilyn Monroe.

He paid for her ticket too, and two sodas. She was an expensive date, she thought.

She leaned against him in the theater. He smelled like donuts and stale coffee—FBI smells. She thought about the fact that he probably never got shot at in his job, but he was still a LEO. He'd understand the crazy hours and the fatigue and the days when she wanted to shower until her skin was raw.

In the dark his hand found hers, and she entwined her fingers through his.

X X X

"Good news," Abbott announced on Monday, when they were all assembled around the conference table. "Our little sting operation was so successful it caught the eye of the Director."

Jane wasn't sure who the Director was, but he assumed he was like the Emperor in Star Wars—talked about in hushed tones and skulking in a dark office somewhere. He swiveled his chair and studied Fischer's face, her beaming pride in their success. He wondered how old she was when her parents had split up, when she had gone looking for validation and praise. Young. Eight or nine maybe. Maybe younger.

He made a point of not looking at Lisbon who was seated beside him. Not that he didn't like looking at Lisbon (she had fourteen freckles on her face, fifteen possibly but that might be a birthmark and he wasn't sure). He didn't want to look because she looked happy and relaxed and dare he say it…post-coital.

Apparently she'd slept with Marcus and he'd gotten the job done. Well good for him. Nice to know he could figure some things out without help. Jane would have been annoyed if he'd gotten a frantic phone call, "Hey Jane, it's Marcus. Bro, can you help me out on this G-spot thing?"

Jane snorted.

Abbott glared at him and Fischer turned. He smiled brightly.

Really, he should have been happy for her. On some level he was. Lisbon of all people deserved the happiness and security that came from being in love. He wanted to see her with joy in her eyes.

But…but Lisbon was, without a shred of doubt, his best friend. She was the person he looked forward to seeing every day, to laughing with. She understood and accepted him. And without a doubt, if she was involved with another man, that would mean they'd spend less time together. And if Pike was jealous at all, maybe a lot less. No more movie marathons or late night barbeque runs or goofy text messages at 1 a.m. because she knew he wasn't asleep. She would text him cat pictures just so he could pretend to be grumpy about it. He didn't know how to delete them, either.

Jane realized that in his effort to not stare at Lisbon, he'd started staring at Lisbon. She was wearing a purple silk dress shirt that looked lovely against her pale skin.

She was looking at him like he'd grown another head. As was Fischer, now that he swiveled back around.

"As I was saying," Abbott continued in his superior way, eyeing his team with a look of weathered stoicism, "we've been asked to assist in the apprehension of some high-level fences in the art black-market."

"White collar division can't get it done?" Jane asked. His tone might have been a bit…bitchy.

Cho looked at him from across the table. It was the same look he gave Rigsby when his friend ate an entire taco in one bite. A mix of disgust and disappointment and vague amusement.

Jane stared pointedly at him. _What?_

It hadn't been _that_ hard to get the art thieves. Sure, his plan was unnecessarily complicated and only in part because he'd been bored that day. Pike, if he was worth his salt, should have found another solution. Jane could think of twelve of them without trying.

Honestly, Pike would probably get pigeon-holed as a mid-level agent, and then when Lisbon was inevitably promoted it would lead to resentment. And she really didn't deserve that nonsense. Sisters were doing it for themselves, and all that.

He felt Lisbon glare at him before she asked, "How, sir? Our covers were blown when apprehended Pulaski and his crew."

"Not true," Abbott replied, tapping the table with a large manila envelope. "With the exception of the men we have in custody, the world thinks that Patrick and Teresa were being monitored by the FBI, who broke in during an altercation that might have led to homicide. They don't know that you're on our side.

"We caught a killer," he continued, "but now that these covers have been established, there's still work to be done. If we put the fences away, then the art thieves have no one to sell to. We put them out of work."

Jane saw where this was going, and he wasn't sure he liked it. It meant being in close proximity to Lisbon while she exchanged syrupy phone calls with Pike and noticeably missed the other man.

Fischer frowned. "But if they think Jane and Lisbon were being monitored by the FBI, then wouldn't anyone with any sense stay away?"

Exactly, Jane thought. Agree with her, Abbott, and let's break for lunch.

"Not necessarily," Cho replied. "If it looks like Jane and Lisbon are desperate, trying to cut their losses—"

Goddamned Cho.

"Then we'd be willing to sell cheap," Jane finished for him. He had a pretty clear picture of what was going on here. The picture was him miserable and watching Lisbon fall in love with Pike."So what are we looking at? Another house party? Two?"

Please another house-party. He could do another house-party with Lisbon in her Herve Leger bandage dress without going insane. Maybe Fischer could switch with her and he wouldn't have to avoid looking at her cleavage all night.

He could touch Fischer, hold her hand, without thinking about the fact that she was sleeping with Marcus Goddamned Pike. Without feeling their friendship disintegrate.

"A few weeks undercover in LA," Abbott replied.

Well shit.

Before Jane could say anything Lisbon said, "A few weeks?" Her voice was incredulous.

Now Jane did look at her. She looked irritated which in turn irritated him. She'd been his friend for twelve years, but two weeks as his pretend girlfriend was too much to ask? Did he _smell_? Yes he was being petulant and bratty, but since when was that new? He lived in a goddamned attic for five years and she didn't bat an eyelash.

"A month at the outside," Abbott added.

"Sir, that's a little extreme…" Lisbon began.

"You knew long operations were a part of this job," Abbott said tightly. His voice left no room for argument. "I fail to see what that's a problem now."

Because she's got a new a boyfriend and she's getting lucky, Jane thought cynically. And she's going to miss him and I'm going to watch her missing him.

Another part of his mind, where his better angels lived and tormented him occasionally, said "she's got a boyfriend because you were too late."

That hurt. It was regret and shame and anger all boiled down into one ugly stew. He'd spent too long grieving and focused on revenge. And Lisbon had been a causality of his inability to let go.

Abbott opened the envelope and slid two drivers licenses down the table to them. The pictures were the same as their DMV-issued licenses, but the names, birthdays and license numbers and changed.

"We felt it would be easier for you two to pose as a married couple," the senior agent said.

The word 'married' made his stomach hurt for some reason.

Patrick and Teresa Smith. Jane rolled his eyes. The FBI couldn't even be bothered for a little creativity. At least he didn't have to take off his ring.

"You'll have a local handler," Abbott continued, "and Fischer, Cho and Wylie will do any behind-the-scenes work you might need. You'll be living at a house that was confiscated by the IRS. I'm told it's quite nice. Think of it as a vacation."

A vacation with a brooding, miserable Teresa Lisbon, Jane reflected. She certainly wouldn't be happy with Abbott interrupting her personal life, and Jane couldn't really blame her. She wasn't one for the long-con anyway. She had a fundamental inability to lie. He'd have to coach her, shield her. Really Fischer was a better choice. She lied flawlessly.

He tapped his new driver's license on the table. If he was being honest with himself—and he rarely was—this was inevitable. It wasn't like they'd have grown old together, solving crimes in the retirement village and sharing ice cream sundaes. He was going to miss her.

"I'd have pictured you more of a Mrs. Lisbon-Smith," he said to her, but the joke fell flat.

Lisbon collected hers and without another word stood up and left the room. Cho shook his head.

This was going to be a long month.

_**And now for the lovely Starry. Just a reminder, we love reviews!**_


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Starry here! Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter one! I think we're going to have a fun time writing this! Hope you enjoy!

Ultra Violet

Chapter Two

Los Angeles was hot. Well, that much wasn't surprising. But the wind was hot, the air shimmering up from the cars was hot, the blinding sun above her was hot.

In a stark contrast, the air conditioning in her fake home for the next two weeks (please, God, let it just be two weeks) was running at full capacity, and she felt goosebumps raise up on her arms as she wandered around the massive, modern structure.

Why did all former multimillion dollar criminals have ultra-contemporary homes? She wondered what was wrong with a little bit of tradition, with old world character.

Jane's house in Malibu had been sleek and shiny, too, she remembered, though she supposed he definitely used to qualify as a multimillion dollar criminal.

He had been petulant and silent almost the whole flight there, stoically flipping through a book or looking out the window, despite the fact that she had been sitting right next to him. Indeed, it seemed like the only time he spoke was to make some scathing comment about this job in general or this mission in particular.

Clearly, there was something bothering him.

Instinctively, she assumed it was about her date with Marcus, but then that would mean Jane actually cared about what she did with her personal life, and she thought that might have been a bit of a stretch.

Methodically, she unpacked her new wardrobe and hung it in the closet, trying to not cringe at the price tags that were still attached to some of the items. Who the hell paid $1000 for a dress? Seriously, who did that? The shoes were worse, and she handled a pair of Jimmy Choos like they were made out of glass.

Abbott had decided that for appearances's sake, Jane also needed to keep his stuff in the master bedroom as well. After all, they were supposed to be a couple, and if people started wandering through the house, the clear occupation of separate bedrooms would raise more than a few eyebrows.

She gave him a wide berth, exploring the rest of the house while Jane cleaned out his suitcase. There was a pool off the French doors in the kitchen, the chemical-laced water shimmering coldly blue in the early afternoon heat. It looked massively appealing.

Her phone beeped, and she smiled when she saw who her text was from.

How's life in sunny LA?

At some point, she knew he was probably going to make his way out to California, be the agent in charge when things really started to get heated in the operation, but for now, he was holed up in Austin.

Hot, she replied. I'm not very excited for this, she added, unsure of why she suddenly felt compelled to tell him that. Maybe she was reassuring him that she wasn't going to enjoy pretending to be someone else's wife for the better part of a month. Well, not that she was his wife, but it was the general principle of the thing.

It'll go fast, he told her. We'll be back to pancake dates before too long. Call me later.

And there it was - a promise to wait for her, no frills, no hidden meanings. God, she had been looking for that for so long.

She heard Jane's footsteps behind her, and she turned to face him. If she was going to be stuck with him, they needed to make the best of it.

"Great pool, huh?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal.

He nodded appreciatively, and she was glad he had decided to play nice. "Only the best for drug kingpins. They should have paid their taxes, though."

She smiled. "Hey, if the IRS can get Al Capone, they can get anyone."

"Excellent point," he conceded with a small laugh. Then, "I have something for you. Fischer handed it to me right before they left for their hotel."

He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, handed it to her.

The wedding ring was cold in her palm, but it was a lovely thing. Gold, like Jane's ring, the diamond solitaire glittering in its setting, the sparkling wedding band beneath it giving the whole thing an elegant touch.

Once, a long time ago, she'd had an engagement ring. When she ended things with Greg, she'd given it back, and her ring finger had remained bare ever since.

Still, there was nothing left for it.

Letting out a silent breath, she slipped the ring on. It fit perfectly.

"Good guess about the size," she said, almost to herself, trying to keep the moment light. But there was something significant in the back of her mind. Rings were...binding, even if they were just pretending.

And Jane's own wedding band was very real.

Even if it bound him to someone else.

The doorbell rang.

She could see Jane's fake persona slip into place. "Well, Mrs. Smith," he said jauntily, offering her his arm. "Shall we go see who our company might be?"

It turned out to be their local handler, an FBI agent by the name of Sarah Cameron. She was smart, efficient, clearly someone who had been doing this for a number of years.

She didn't stay long, just gave them the basic overview of the land and their first assignment.

"You need to be seen," she told them, ankles crossed. "People need to know that there are new players in town. So, tonight, you're going out. There's a club downtown where some...notables in the business hang out. You'll be attending, and you need to charm the hell out of them."

Jane smiled...charmingly...and Lisbon fought to not roll her eyes.

Sarah looked meaningfully at both of them. "Most importantly, you need to make them believe that you are who you say you are. These are professionals, better at their job than the little gang you had in Texas was. They're trained to spot bullshit a mile away, so you need to put on the performance of your life."

Lisbon knew what would happen if they failed here. Best case scenario would be the art thieves fleeing into the night. Worst case - they would figure out she and Jane were working with the FBI and summarily execute them.

Convincing show it was, then.

Their new handler left after giving them details and directions, and they the next couple of hours to synchronize their story and get ready for the evening.

She took a deep, steadying breath. The better she did her job, the quicker they could go home, and she could be rid of the havoc that her proximity to Jane was causing.

The end of this case could not come soon enough.

XxXxXxXxX

Jane had been doing a great deal of thinking since he'd been assigned this horrible mission. His first reaction had been something approaching horror. Trapped in a house with the woman he loved who wanted to be with someone else. A nightmare if he'd ever seen one.

But then, as the plane had touched down in California, he realized that perhaps this was an opportunity to take advantage of.

They had a month here, pretending to be married.

From what he understood, Pike wasn't going to be around for much of the time, maybe popping in an out occasionally.

Lisbon had been on, what, one date with the man? That hardly made them exclusive. There was nothing in the rules that said he couldn't make one last attempt to show her what she meant to him.

She had to be his wife for a month.

Only an idiot would squander this chance, and he was done being an idiot.

Later, already dressed for the night, he knocked softly on the bedroom door (their bedroom door).

"Come in," Lisbon called after a long moment. "I need help."

When he entered the room fully, he blinked. Lisbon was standing helplessly in front of the open closet, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe, hair and make up done, staring petulantly at her new clothes.

"I have no idea what to wear to a club full of art thieves," she practically whined. "I'm useless at this!"

He chuckled, stepping forward, reminding himself to not look at her legs, as much as he really, really wanted to. "Hmm," he said, starting to flip through the hangers. "What do we have in here that says professional art thief, happily married to a fellow professional art thief?"

Lisbon sat on the bed, palms pressing into the soft duvet cover. "Sorry, they don't really have that department at Kohl's."

"Not very thoughtful of them, is it?" he teased without looking at her. Then, "Ah, yes. This will work nicely."

The dress was short, black, and slinky, and he couldn't wait to see it on her.

Lisbon eyed it dubiously. "I'll look like a hooker," she said flatly.

He shushed her, then sent her to the en suite bathroom to try it on. She emerged after another minute, still grumbling, but he felt his breath catch in his throat.

She looked...well, if there was a better way of saying 'drop dead gorgeous' he wasn't aware of it. The dress hugged her in all the right places, the pale curves of her breasts peeping over the silky fabric.

Biofeedback, he reminded himself, and he forced his blood to cool down. It was a monumental task, however.

Wordlessly, he picked out matching shoes, then gave her his hands to steady herself as she stepped into them.

"Hooker," she said again, staring into the full length mirror.

He forced himself to behave normally. "Not hardly." He could see himself in Lisbon's reflection in the glass, and he wanted to put his hands on her tiny waist. "And if you were," he went on without thought, carefully brushing a strand of her dark hair back, "no one would be able to afford you." His words were unconsciously sensual, and she flushed.

The next moment was fraught with tension as they looked at themselves in the mirror. They looked good together, looked like they belonged, looked real, especially with her heated skin and the way his eyes had darkened.

He knew in that instant that Marcus Pike was the farthest thing from her mind.

But he need to take a step back, needed to remove himself, or he was going to give serious consideration to crossing lines he had no business crossing yet. Even if the idea of pressing his lips to her exposed neck was so appealing he almost choked.

She would let him now, he knew, and before she could come totally to her senses, he could render her completely thoughtless. Could taste the soft skin behind her earlobe, test the weight of her breasts in his hands, feel her strain against him.

His step away was almost abrupt, but if he didn't move, now, she was standing close enough that she was going to be left in no doubt of what was on his mind.

"Shall we go?" he asked, voice a little rough.

"Umm, sure," she replied, looking a bit dreamy still. "Just let me grab my purse."

A half hour later, he was tossing the keys to the valet in front of a shady looking club, sandwiched between two massive, modern nightspots, overflowing with people. Apparently, they were going somewhere a little more secluded.

The staircase they went down was dimly lit, and he reached for Lisbon's hand. She stiffened for a moment in surprise, then apparently remembered that they were supposed to be married and twined their fingers together.

The club was nothing like he expected. It was almost dark in some spots, gleaming wood everywhere, and, weirdly enough, the speakers were screaming out some Icelandic techno music, the bass bouncing around in his head.

"Didn't see this coming," he muttered to Lisbon, lips touching her ear.

She turned to him, stretched onto her tiptoes to speak. "What's the plan?"

He grinned. "Just act natural. No," he amended, moving his hand to her waist, "be fabulous."

The first part of the night was going to be easy. It's wasn't like you just casually asked strangers if they were into grand theft larceny. They just had to be a happy couple, out for a night on the town.

They had one drink, and then another, before he pulled Lisbon to her feet from where they had been sitting at the bar. "Dance with me," he said, smirking.

"Jane," she hissed, before remembering she couldn't call him that anymore. "I'm going to kill myself in these shoes if I dance."

He tugged on her hand anyway. "I won't let you fall," he promised, and he saw something lighten in her eyes, and she let him lead her, shaking her head in disbelief.

The beat had slowed a touch, enough to where he could wrap his arms around her and it not look particularly strange. So he did, and after a second's hesitation, she leaned into him, locking her fingers at the small of his back.

He knew they had caught the attention of a few likely-looking candidates in the back of the room, but they needed to wait until they were approached, so he would simply enjoy this moment with her.

Her hair smelled like vanilla, and he traced his fingers over the gap in her open back dress, feeling her shiver slightly as he touched bare skin.

Nope, no Marcus Pike in her thoughts now, either.

She looked up at him once, green eyes heated, and he knew it wasn't an act.

So he lowered his head and kissed her, softly, warmly, giving her enough time to pull back if she wanted to. When she stayed with him, he touched the tip of his tongue to her lower lip, and she opened her mouth with a sigh that might have been a moan.

He kept the pace slow, languid, thorough, and when he pulled back, she rested her head against his shoulder, eyes shut tightly, fingers clenched in his shirt.

His own breathing was heavy, the sheer sensuality of what they shared fogging his mind.

There had been nothing staged about that.

He wanted to do it again, but his better judgment stepped in and reminded him of where, exactly, they were, and he scanned the room.

No one was paying them any particular mind. They weren't the first couple to make out on a dance floor. They wouldn't the last, even tonight.

The group in the corner, though, was eyeing them with keener interest.

Apparently, it had been a convincing show of affection.

When the music picked up again, they found seats around a small table off to the side. In point of fact, he found a seat, and she found his lap. It was her move, and unexpected, but very welcome.

He was going to win her. It was never about Pike, anyway.

She wanted him - he knew that. And this was going to give her a chance to act on some of those feelings within a context that made it all completely fine.

They had another drink that way, his arm around her, his hand resting half on her dress and half on her bare thigh.

"Is it working?" she asked once in a sharp whisper, arm around his shoulders.

The men in the corner were rising, coming towards them.

His hand on her leg tightened. "I think so." He offered her a wry smile. "In fact, I think we're just about to see how well."

XxXxXxX

Mlee is up next! (We love reviews like cake. Delicious, delicious cake!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Mlee here. Thank you so much for your reviews and encouragement! Starry and I really appreciate it!**

**Ultra Violet**

**Chapter Three**

Teresa tried desperately to remain calm and collected as Jane's fingers skated over the bare skin of her thigh. He stroked her gently, his index finger idly running along to hem of her dress. She struggled not to gasp. Or to smack him reflexively. She could feel the pulsing beat of the techno music in her blood—unless that was just her heartbeat.

Two men sat down at their table, one of them carrying a champagne bottle and glasses. They were more polished than McKaye and Pulaski had been, more in line with Jane's metrosexual art thief disguise. This group was all dark suits, unbuttoned collars and shiny cufflinks. No muscle in a leather jacket. She could smell their cologne.

"A bottle of champagne for the newlyweds?" the first man asked suavely. He was all tanned skin and fair hair whereas his companion was dark, swarthy and with a nose that had been broken too many times. The blond was attractive, polished. The darker man looked rough around the edges, intense.

"Wonderful," she purred. She actually didn't mean to purr. It just happened because Jane's finger slipped just a tiny bit behind her hemline, making goose bumps raise on her skin. He was about four inches from real trouble, and was way past the boundaries of friendly, casual touching.

He was having way too much fun with this, she thought. She owed him a nose tweak or two.

"How did you know we were newlyweds?" Jane asked, amused. His voice was not constricted with lust, she noticed.

His fingers continued their foray, then retreated, his palm stroking her again. It was hot, even through the fabric of her dress, and pleasantly heavy. Her breathing hitched. Her skin felt too hot and too tight.

Good Lord, if this was what he could do to her with just a few absent minded touches, she didn't want to know what would happen if he put his mind to it. She'd probably explode.

"The way you kissed on the dance floor. Only honeymooners kiss like that," the blond replied. "I'm Ivan. This is Charlie." He nodded to his companion.

Charlie handed her a flute of champagne and she drank it a little too quickly, relishing the chilly bite. Jane wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her against him more fully. She could feel his breath on her neck, her shoulder.

"I hope kissing like that isn't reserved for honeymooners," he said, sipping his own champagne. "I'd like to think we have decades more in store."

She was so close to him. She'd never been _this_ close to him, and it was disconcerting. Because he smelled like Jane and he sounded like Jane, but he did not feel like Jane. Jane felt like awkward hugs and shoulder punches. Right now he felt like long, languid kisses and wicked promises and …_things_. She didn't even know what kind of things. But she was willing to bet they felt amazing.

How was it that this didn't even affect him? Had he felt half of what she did, she'd notice given that she perched on his lap. But nothing. Nada.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and she couldn't even think straight.

"So," Charlie asked seriously, leaning forward on the table. "Are you two part of the scene?"

Jane was trying to say something, but she interrupted and said, "Yes." It was all she could contribute to the conversation. She couldn't concentrate sitting like this, feeling Jane's butterfly kisses on her exposed skin.

Charlie's crooked face broke into a grin. "Excellent."

This can't be right, she thought. Would art thieves talk so openly about their business?

"What my lady means is, we're just in LA for a short time," Jane said lightly, giving her a squeeze. "Not much room in the schedule for fun. Right, baby?"

Baby?

She was thoroughly confused now. Clearly Jane thought these were not the men they were supposed to impress. She wanted off his lap. She wanted her jeans and her boots and her glock and then she could think reasonably again.

"Don't need much time for fun," Ivan replied, staring at her. She shifted uncomfortably. "We could bail and find somewhere more private to talk."

"I think we're gonna pass tonight, boys," Jane said. There was a quite edge to his voice. She almost jumped at his tone.

Her 'danger' instincts were kicking off. Something was very wrong here.

"Patrick?" she asked.

"The lady said she's into the scene, man," Ivan replied. "Don't be so jealous." He reached over and took her hand, his thumb running along her wrist.

"Hey!" she said, and pulled back.

"Relax," Ivan said, and reached for her again.

"I think we'd better go," Jane said, standing up. He more or less dumped her off his lap, and she stumbled on her heels, trying to catch her balance.

"Maybe you should cool it," Charlie said, standing up too. "Maybe you should ask your lady what she likes."

This was going south fast. She reached for her clutch, for the little revolver kept in there.

"Back off," Jane said. There was a violence in his tone she hadn't heard since the Haibach case. Charlie looked like unimpressed, like Jane was a pesky gadfly.

"Guys," she warned.

Then it all happened in quick succession. Charlie reached for her waist, she tottered on her heels, Ivan stood up and knocked the champagne over, and Jane punched Charlie in the face.

It wasn't a great punch. Cho would have teased him for it. It stunned the other man rather than really hurting him. When Charlie took a swing at Jane, Jane ducked and she stepped in. Her heels kept her off-balance, but she delivered a solid sucker-punch to Charlie's gut, then another to his jaw for good measure.

He went down in a wheezing pile. Her hand throbbed, but she felt better overall. Much more like herself.

"What the fuck?" Ivan asked.

Jane wrapped his arm around her and tugged her toward the door. "Let's go before the cops come."

She followed after him, her mind still spinning from the activity.

They stood impatiently as the valet retrieved their car (this one confiscated from a drug dealer). Jane tipped the man and slid behind the wheel. He pulled away from the curb just as she saw red and blue lights in the rearview mirror.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded, reaching for her seat belt.

Jane was shaking his right hand. "Does it always hurt that much when you punch someone?"

"Sometimes," she said. "I thought we were supposed to make friends with those guys!"

Jane was focused on the road, getting them out of the city and onto the freeway. Neon lights passed them in streaks as he weaved through the traffic.

"Not those guys," he replied. "Thanks for telling them we were part of the 'scene.'"

"I don't understand," she said, letting her frustration show.

"They were swingers, Lisbon, not art thieves. And you told them we were interested." There was a hint of amusement behind the irritation in his voice.

She felt her face grow hot. "I-I thought… How did you know they were swingers?"

"How did you not?" he replied. He turned a corner too sharply and she grabbed the armrest for support. They merged onto the freeway and he let the engine of the luxury car loose. It accelerated with a purr and she winced as he changed lanes.

"Well, I'm sorry Jane, but that kind of thing doesn't come up in my life very often," she replied, her tone dry and cranky. "Maybe you could fill me on the sexual proclivities of everyone in the club before we talk to them next time!"

"Just let me do the talking," he said.

He winced, and she could tell he immediately wanted to take it back. "You think I'm too naïve to handle this assignment?" she asked hotly. Now she was pissed. All that sexual frustration from earlier had pooled into a nice little rage somewhere in her belly.

"That's not what I—"

"No wonder they thought we were swingers or something!" she interrupted. "You had your hands all over me back there. And slow down!"

"I was supposed to have my hands all over you, we're married, remember?" She could hear the exasperation in his voice. He did not slow down. Another driver gave them the finger as he whizzed past.

"Yeah, well not all married couples feel each other up in public," she snapped. "You didn't see Grace and Wayne pulling stunts like that, did you?"

He let out a little laugh. "Grace and Wayne used to have sex in the storage room. Besides," he glanced at her. "We're supposed to be convincing."

"What does that mean?" she snapped.

"You? In that dress? Any sane man would have his hands all over you."

She felt a flush creep up her neck. "You were almost to third base, Jane!"

"What are we? Fourteen?" he asked. "And you were enjoying it, so stop making such a big scene."

She didn't think it was possible for her to blush any hotter, but she did. "Well don't put yourself out for my sake!" she told him, immediately embarrassed by the hurt in her voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"You said I was enjoying myself and you obviously…weren't." She nodded in general direction of his lap. "So don't put yourself out for my sake."

If she sounded huffy, she figured she had the right. The whole night was a disaster. She hoped to God that Agent Cameron didn't hear about this.

"Really?" Jane asked, incredulously. "You're upset because I didn't…?"

She didn't say anything. She looked out the window and tried to remember what professionalism was. She needed a cold shower and a stiff drink and at least eight hours Jane-free.

After awhile he said, "Biofeedback."

She looked at him. "What?"

"Biofeedback," he replied, cutting across lanes and getting off the freeway. "Regulating your breathing, heartbeat…blood pressure. It's a useful trick."

"And you did…that," she said drily.

"I'm not dead, Lisbon. I'm going to react to a beautiful woman sitting in my lap. I just didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. Instead she kicked off her heels, rubbed at her swollen toes, and tried to keep the dress from riding up too much. She was going to have blisters tomorrow.

Pike would have just told her she looked sexy. He wouldn't have given her all those confusing mixed signals. 'Wow, Teresa, you look sexy.' Was that hard?

Of course, if Jane had said that to her, it would have been…odd. Jane didn't say things like 'you look sexy.' Jane also didn't stick his fingers under the hem of her dress and make her shiver.

So.

"I really need a diet Coke," she blurted.

Jane looked at her. "What?"

"I really need a diet Coke. This night was a disaster and I need a diet Coke to feel better. And possibly fries."

His lips ticked up a little bit. "You know that aspartame is horrible for you, right?"

"Aspartame makes its delicious."

"It's like liquid cancer."

"See, now I'm not buying you a Coke," she replied lightly.

Suddenly everything was better between them. Suddenly it was okay again.

XXX

They stopped at a McDonalds on the way home and nibbled on fries in the car. She was licking the salt off her fingers when Jane pulled into their driveway.

She followed him into the house. "So which one was going to sleep with me and which one with you?" she asked him. "Charlie or Ivan?"

He just glared at her, then unlocked the house and disarmed the alarm. "I think you were supposed to be the star of that show," he said drily.

She shuddered. Maybe she didn't want to know.

"I need a shower," she said. "Maybe there's a game on. I'm too keyed up to sleep."

"I'll go make some tea," Jane replied. He wandered in the direction of the kitchen and she thought that he looked exhausted.

He'd punched somebody. She didn't expect that. "Put some ice on your hand," she called after him. Then, "There's ibuprofen upstairs."

He didn't respond but she heard the water running as he filled the kettle.

She sighed and climbed the stairs, heels dangling from her fingers.

She went to the bedroom and took her nightgown out of the drawer. It was the same red one she'd worn last time. Her personal phone, not the FBI one with the tracker, was chirping, letting her know she had a text. She took it and the nightgown into the bathroom and shut the door.

She set her things on the marble counter and pulled out a makeup remover pad, wiping the eyeliner and mascara from her face, making raccoon eyes in the process. She debated the shower or the whirlpool tub, then settling on the shower turned the water on as hot as she thought she could stand.

Her phone chirped again. She picked it up and read through the text messages as she let the water heat up in the shower.

_Hope the new digs has decent food. No canapés._

_You're missing all the fun here. Tons of paperwork._

And just now: _How's your night going?_

Marcus.

How did she answer that? _Fine, Jane felt me up and we almost picked up two dudes in a club?_

Sighing, she typed_. No developments_. _Going to bed early._

She hit send then turned the phone to mute. Stripping out of the little black dress she stepped into the shower and tried to scrub the night away.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **Hello, it's Starry. Thanks to everyone who has been kind enough to leave us a review. You are seriously appreciated and we love you dearly.

**Ultra Violet**

**Chapter Four**

While Lisbon was in the shower, Jane rattled around the empty house, thoughts wandering in some strange directions. 

She had been upset because she didn't think he wanted her. 

He and Lisbon had fought about many things over the years, but never unresolved sexual tension. Well, never _exclusively_ about that. It had certainly played a part in more than a few disagreements, but this was the first time it had been front and center. 

They had managed to patch things up on the way back, to find their normal comfort levels again. She was placated with Diet Coke and the promise of a long, hot shower. 

He had absolutely no problem picturing her in said shower, and if she saw him now, there would be absolutely no doubt in her mind of how much she was wanted. 

The amount of self-control he'd been exercising was intense and insane. He needed to sleep, needed to recharge, or the next time he saw her in a dress, she'd find herself pinned up against the nearest wall.

The idea was definitely not without its merits, and he sighed, running his hands through his hair. 

The more he thought about it, however, the more he decided this turn of events was a good thing. Lisbon being upset about his reaction clearly meant that she _wanted_ him to want her. And since this was Lisbon they were talking about, it meant she wasn't entirely devoted to Agent Art Recovery.

Smiling now, he stretched out on the couch, a little keyed up from the night still, and tried to find something on television that would lull him into a stupor. 

In another half hour, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and he looked up expectantly. 

Red pajamas.

Er, part of a set of red pajamas. 

Half his brain promptly shut off.

Smooth white legs and satin fabric. Wet hair. Bare feet.

He didn't even bother to hide the way he was looking at her. She certainly noticed, cheeks flushing, biting her bottom lip just a touch in nervousness.

"Hey," she said quietly, a bit anxiously.

"Hey yourself," he answered. "What's up?" 

She shrugged. "Anything good on? I'm too worked up to sleep."

He understood that, understood the implicit meaning being her words. Something about being incredibly turned on and not being able to do anything about it. Because she had definitely been turned on. 

Slowly, he swung his legs down, patted the space beside him. "Useless reality television about bearded men. It'll put you out in no time." 

Lisbon sat down, curled her feet underneath her. He could still see her bare knees. Stupidly, he wondered if she was wearing anything underneath those pajamas. God, he wanted to find out for himself. 

He swallowed. Hard.

She kept her eyes on the television, giggling occasionally. He had no idea what was funny. Hell, he didn't even know what was _on_ the show to start with. 

The only person worth watching was sitting next to him, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions.

He spent the next ten minutes trying to engineer a situation where he could feasibly get his hands on her again. This would be a stupid opportunity to waste. 

Fortunately, he was a take-charge sort of guy in these situations.

"Want a glass of wine?" he asked. "There's some sweet stuff in the kitchen." 

"Sure," she told him. "If you're offering." 

He smiled, then got up. When he returned, he carefully handed her a mostly full glass, then sat next to her, much closer than he'd been before. He insisted that they clink glasses before drinking, and her first sip was taken with a smile playing around her lips. 

He sat back against the cushions, head almost against her shoulder. She noticed his proximity, he could tell by her stiffness. 

But then she shifted, just a touch, and he felt the silk of her pajamas next to his cheek.

He hid his own smile, leaning into her even more. 

When his drink was finished, he bent forward, setting the etched glass on the floor, then stretched back out on the couch, his head in her lap. 

There was a moment of unsure silence from her where she was utterly still. Then, lightly, so lightly he wasn't sure it was actually happening, her fingers start to sift through his hair.

As close as he was to her, he could feel the pounding of her heart. He hoped she didn't decide to ask what he was doing. 

He turned to his back, looking up at her. Her green eyes were clear, deep.

In the quiet moment, he could read her intentions as plain as day and let his eyes close as she leaned over him. 

He let her lead this time, let her take whatever she wanted. He could taste the wine they'd been drinking and the residual sweetness of her Diet Coke.

In a second, he curved a hand around the back of her head, one of her palms pressed flat against his chest.

When he could feel her hesitating, unsure of where to go next, he took the situation over, levering upwards, taking her face in his hands. 

It was time to make a decision - how far to take it this. 

Slowly, carefully, he skimmed his fingers down the fabric of her pajamas, tracing the sides of her breasts. When she arched into him, he eased her to her back, hovering over her.

It was stupid, pointless, denying what was between them. 

He undid one button of her top, then another, and another until they were both almost trembling in anticipation. When he pushed the garment apart, she took a deep breath, mouth still against his. 

She wore no bra, and he couldn't stop himself from thumbing the taut peak of one breast, loving the sensual expression on her face.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispered, fingers tracing down her flat stomach, skating over the soft cotton of the only item she had left.

He kissed her again, and at the same time, slipping his hand beneath the elastic of her panties. He stroked her once, lightly, and she groaned. 

His touch was teasing, gentle, and she started to strain under him, searching for more. He carefully eased a finger into her, loving how she clenched around him. 

"I want you," he breathed against her neck. "Do you believe me?"

Her answer seemed vitally important. 

"_Yes_," she hissed, just as he added a second finger.

She threaded her hands into his hair, dragging his lips back to hers. His heart was pounding in his ears so loudly that he could hardly hear his own breathing. If it kept up this rate, it was going to literally explode before he could get his clothes off.

No, it was _too_ loud. Almost like...almost like it was someone pounding on the... 

"Shit," he swore, raising his head. 

Lisbon looked up at him, dazed. "What?"

"Someone's here," he told her, and it took her fogged brain a moment to process that. When it did, she sat straight up, nearly shoving him off the couch and practically ran upstairs, holding her top together. 

He took several deep breaths, willing himself to calm down, to _not_ think about what had just been happening.

By the time he opened the ornate door, he was fairly certain he looked normal. Well, normal-ish.

It was their handler, Sarah Cameron, clearly agitated.

"I've been knocking for like, five minutes!" she almost yelled, walking in without waiting for an invitation. 

"Sorry," Jane said, trying to sound moderately contrite. "I was asleep."

"What about Agent Lisbon?" she demanded. 

"She was..." _about two minutes from an orgasm_, "...upstairs." 

Cameron looked around at the living room. Too late, he realized there were two empty wine glasses on the floor.

Maybe the other woman wouldn't notice them. 

"Is something wrong?" he asked, trying to distract her.

"Absolutely," she replied. "Go get Agent Lisbon." 

He took the stairs two at a time, knocked softly on the bedroom door, then pushed it open before hearing a response. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't just seen about every inch of her.

She was in the bathroom, now dressed in yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt, looking flushed and harried. Definitely wearing a bra this time, which was a pity. 

"Our lovely handler says we have a problem," he told her.

Her cheeks were too red. 

"Focus," he instructed, but took both of her hands. "I promise to make you feel better later." 

She met his eyes. "If you so much as look at me in the wrong way in front of that woman, I'll shoot you." 

He chuckled, then leaned down and kissed her swiftly. "I promise to behave. But let's go. The sooner we figure out what Cameron wants, the sooner she'll go."

She probably just wanted an update about their night, to see if they'd made progress. 

Of course, he was dead wrong, he had no way of knowing that.

XxXxXxXxXxX

For the first time in her life, she wondered if she was going to physically be able to do her job. Jane walked behind her as they made their way downstairs, and all she could think about was that she now had go sit on the couch she had just been lying on, mostly naked. With Jane's fingers inside of her.

God. 

This was going to be impossible.

Cameron looked very impatient when they finally saw her, pacing back and forth.

Thankfully, her police instincts hadn't been totally wiped out by the little...incident from earlier and she knew that something had gone very wrong. 

It helped keep her on track.

"What's up?" she asked, making a point of sitting in the armchair. Immediately, she realized it was a mistake, because now Cameron had to sit on the couch, and she had to look at the offending piece of furniture.

"You two aren't the only undercover agents we have in Los Angeles," she told them, "and you're certainly not the only undercover agents we have working with art thieves." 

An eerie feeling crawled up her spine as Cameron went on. Jane leaned against the closest wall.

"We got word tonight that two of our other agents were found in the desert. They had been murdered execution style." She paused to let the grim news sink in. "We have reason to believe they were killed because their cover had been blown." 

"Jesus," Lisbon whispered. 

"He wasn't present," Jane said, his face a little hard. "And now you want us to find out who did it, in addition to bringing down the rest of the little art thief band you sent us here to nab." 

"Mr. Jane," Cameron said. "People have now died. Your mission has changed. Find the murderers. Getting the full art theft operation is now secondary." 

Lisbon let out a breath. "Where do we start? And how the hell do we know the same thing isn't going to happen to us?" 

"All the files from the other agents are going to be sent here in the morning. Hopefully, there will be something useful in there, something that tells you where to start." She paused, looked around at both of them. "And it's up to you to make your performance convincing enough to remain unsuspected." 

When she left, Lisbon compulsively checked all the windows and doors. It was stupid, she knew. No one in the art thievery department knew they were in town, they had made contact with no one, unless you counted the swingers, which she did _not_. 

When she finished her paranoid task, she found Jane, still in the living room, clearly deep in thought. He looked up when she entered, face solemn. 

"Want to talk about it?" he asked. 

She ran a hand down her face. "I get a feeling that we're not being told all the facts. Art thieves aren't known for executing federal agents, after all. And especially not like that." 

Jane's eyes widened slightly. "I agree. Definitely something going on that we don't know about. Time to change that. Those files have to say something worthwhile. We'll see where they lead us." He sighed, stretched his legs out in front of him. "Now," he went on, and his voice was different. "Do you want to talk about the other thing?" 

The other thing. The thing where she was basically naked underneath him, loving every second of torture he was putting her through, looking forward to when roles got to be reversed. 

"No," she said. 

"No?" he echoed. 

"It happened," she said, quietly. "I think we both know where it would have gone if we hadn't been interrupted."

He gave her a wry smile. "I have a pretty good idea." Then he looked at her thoughtfully. "Are you sorry?"

There was a world of implication in that question. Was she sorry about doing this with him? Or was she feeling guilty about Marcus? "No," she repeated. To both questions. 

She wasn't sleeping with Marcus, whatever Jane thought. She owed him no allegiance, technically. There had never been any conversation about exclusivity.

And Jane was...well, Jane. The twelve years they had known each other hung heavy between them. 

Whatever they had trumped anything and anyone else.

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied.

She glanced at the ornate clock on the wall. It was almost two in the morning. "We should get some sleep," she said. "It's been one hell of a day." Saying the words out loud made her realize how fatigued she actually was and she felt her shoulders slump.

Jane stood. "If I promise to behave myself," he began, "do you think there's room for me in that bed?" 

She fought her blossoming smile. "I don't know. I thought you were more of a couch type."

He shrugged. "I'll make an exception." Then he adopted a pouting face. "Are you going to leave me out in the cold?" 

She turned, heading for the stairs, keeping him in anticipation for another moment. "If you hog the bed," she called over her shoulder, "I'll make you sleep in the yard."

His laugh followed her upstairs, and so did his footsteps.

She had no idea where they were going with this, and tonight, she just didn't care. She wanted Jane next to her, had wanted it forever, and now she was going to have him.

There should be no looking a gift horse in the mouth, and all of that. Not that Jane's mouth and a horse's mouth were similar and now she really needed to _stop_ thinking about Jane's mouth, period, or the sleep she desperately needed was going to go out the window. 

Five minutes after her head hit the pillow, she was asleep, Jane's warm weight pulling her under.


	5. Chapter 5

**Mlee Here. Thank you so much for your amazing support of this story. Starry and I really appreciate all the reviews!**

**Ultra Violet**

**Chapter Five**

Jane woke up to a warm bed scented like Teresa Lisbon. It felt wonderful, but it would have been better had the bed actually _contained_ Lisbon.

Based on the noise coming from downstairs, as well as the smell of brewing coffee, she'd been up for a little while at least. He sat up in bed and combed his fingers through his hair, pondering the turn their relationship had taken in the past twenty-four hours.

He had always known that Lisbon was an attractive woman. He wasn't sure when his observations had gone from affectionate appreciation to full-on desire. Back when Red John had been alive, he hadn't let himself go there very often. When he was feeling particularly dark and low, he'd lay awake in his attic and imagine what her lips tasted like, what her naked breasts looked like, what she sounded like when she was on the edge of release. He'd let himself fantasize briefly, and then he'd pack it away, bury it deep.

He relished their friendship, his love for her even though he wouldn't let himself think about it too closely. When he'd been facing death or imprisonment two years ago, he finally let himself tell her the truth. She meant more to him that she possibly knew. She was his best friend, and more than that, it was the thought of her, beautiful Saint Teresa, that gave him hope.

But he didn't say 'I love you.' Those words still choked him. And if he was going to die, then it seemed particularly unfair to burden her with that. When he was in Venezuela, desperately lonely for her, he never wrote the words either. They couldn't be together—he couldn't even get a letter from her in return. To tell her then would only serve to hurt them both. If she didn't return his feelings, she couldn't tell him. And he couldn't keep writing to her not knowing how she felt (although he suspected). And if she did return them, well then he'd given her a glimpse of something she couldn't have.

And then he'd come back and…what? He sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. He'd come back and he'd grown comfortable being near her the way he used to be, adoring but distant. It was a courtly love because he was too afraid to do _anything_.

Afraid to move on.

Afraid to lose their bond to rejection.

Twelve years of waffling, of not letting himself admit how much she really _did_ mean to him. And in the span of twenty-four hours they'd gone from occasional flirting and secret fantasies to nearly making love on a couch.

It still amazed him, that she thought he didn't want her. He'd tried to be restrained, distant, professional. The fact that she took it as a slight was an eye opener. He'd always assumed she knew that he was ogling her from afar, in a harmless sort of way. She was the only woman he ever flirted with—except for suspects, of course.

And once he'd admitted to her that she affected him it was impossible to put the genie back in the bottle. Suddenly the idea of physical intimacy between them was out there, permeating every thought and conversation and glance.

It was going to be a hard month, literally and figuratively. It was like his body had woken up from a long slumber and was making up for lost time.

He showered and dressed, spending time staring at their clothes side by side in the closet. He made the bed. He brushed his teeth and flossed. He stalled.

She'd been spooked last night and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Part of him wanted to go downstairs, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her upstairs to toss her on the bed. Another part of him was petrified.

He played the smooth-talking, flirtatious conman, but truth be told, it had been a long time since he'd made love to anyone. Lorelei had been fucking, and it had been a show. He'd let his hindbrain loose and the rest of him went somewhere else for a while.

What if she was expecting magic? What if failed to amaze her? To seduce her? They'd been hyped on adrenaline and wine last night, and he'd been ten seconds from exploding. Now in the harsh light of day what if he failed to dazzle? If anyone would look past his shit, it would be Lisbon. What if she fell in love with him and he let her down?

He realized, miserably, that he was scared.

He wandered downstairs, his brain foggy and conflicted. He found Lisbon seated at the island in the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee and a stack of files in front of her.

"Good morning," she said, without looking up.

He went to the stovetop to retrieve the kettle. He almost said something flippant like, 'never would have pegged you for a cuddler,' but Lisbon made a quick gesture toward her phone.

Marcus's voice, tinny and distant, came over the line on speakerphone. "I think we need to call this off and bring you home."

He sounded serious. Worried.

"Two FBI agents were killed, Marcus," Lisbon replied. "I'm not willing to give up until I understand why."

"They were shot execution style," the other agent replied vehemently. "This changes everything."

"I've been on risky assignments before," Lisbon said. There was an edge of warning in her tone.

Before the argument could progress, Jane said loudly, "Any idea why they would be killed in the first place? Cameron seemed to think their covers were blown, but that doesn't sound right. This sounds like a cartel hit, not something art thieves would do."

"There's been an escalation in violence among all criminal sectors recently," Pike replied. "Whenever the economy dips, there's more competition and pressure in the criminal world. But this uncharacteristic."

Lisbon dropped one of the manila folders into a stack. "Nothing in these files sheds any light on this. None of the known players in this area have a history of violence like this. Some assault, but nothing like execution-style murder."

Jane filled the kettle, then asked, "Do we know how their covers were blown?"

"We don't even know they were," Marcus said, clearly aggravated. "We don't know anything."

"We're dealing with an unknown quantity," Lisbon replied. "Either something worth so much, people are willing to kill for it, or a new player we don't know."

"I don't like it," Marcus said.

There was an awkward pause, then the other agent added, "I am seriously considering canceling this assignment, Teresa."

"I seriously recommend you don't," she replied tautly.

The kettle whistled shrilly. Lisbon said something like, "keep me updated" and disconnected just as Pike replied, "Miss you."

Jane poured the hot water into a mug, added a bag of Irish breakfast tea, and started steeping.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

"Mmm," she mumbled, flipping through another file.

Clearly they weren't going to discuss the night before, at least not now.

After a minute she said, "Wylie is coming over in a few minutes. He's got some trackers he wants us to wear."

"Trackers?"

"GPS locators. Considering the fact that this job just got really dangerous," she replied. She shook her head. "It's different when another cop is killed, you know?"

He did. He thought about touching her shoulder, brushing her hair away from her face, but her body language was all frustration and anger.

The doorbell rang a few moments later, and Jane let Wylie in. The young agent was practically bristling with excitement. He was dressed as a pizza delivery boy, complete with pizza box.

"I feel like Q," Wylie admitted as he opened the box on the counter. He removed two watches, each expensive looking knock offs. He handed the smaller band, inlaid with faux diamonds, to Lisbon. "These are your GPS locators," he said. "They're always on, so as long as you don't take the watch off, then we can find you. They're waterproof and extra durable, so don't worry about breaking them."

Jane took the men's watch out of the case and put it on. It felt heavy and cold.

"I've got to go," Wylie said. "Agent Cameron wants everything here to appear totally normal, so I can't stay long. It's not like pizza boys hang out to chat." He laughed to himself.

"Just in adult movies," Jane confirmed.

Wylie looked equal parts confused and scandalized. "Um…Cameron thinks she might be under surveillance, so she said she's going dark." He emphasized the last words, relishing the lingo. "She said she'll contact you by phone or set up a safe meet."

He closed his pizza box. "Good luck, guys."

Jane didn't bother showing him to the door. He focused instead on Lisbon and her uncharacteristic silence.

"You okay?" he asked finally.

"No," she admitted, finally looking up and meeting his gaze. "I feel bad. I'm here with you…and he's sitting in Texas, worried about me."

"Who?" Jane asked. "Marcus?" _Obviously, Marcus_, he thought, chastising himself.

"It doesn't feel right," she said quietly. "It feels dishonest."

He didn't know how to ask the question because he didn't want an answer. "So you were…"

"We dated," she replied quickly. "We never said we were exclusive, but I just thought it was implied. Making out with you in the club was part of the job, but last night," she swallowed. "That wasn't. I feel guilty."

He felt sick. "We got carried away," he said carefully, feeling his defenses build.

She stood up and dumped her coffee in the sink. "I guess. I'm going for a run, Jane. Start thinking about how to get to the bottom of these murders."

XXX

She relished the jolt every time her feet hit the pavement. Even the hot sun beating down on her back felt good. She could sweat out her demons this way.

She'd woken up, a little hung-over, her face against Jane's shoulder. Her leg had been thrown over his, his arm wrapped around her waist. It had felt warm and wonderful and terrifying.

Jane was a fantasy. He wasn't the guy you had morning breath or tangled hair in front of. He wasn't really…_real_. She still didn't know if he even owned pajamas or if his mother was alive or if he was a cat person or a dog person. It was easy to fantasize about Jane because the odds of them becoming reality were slim.

And then he'd kissed her and touched her thigh and her brain had shut down, and she'd said stupid things that she never should have. Things that amounted to, "it hurts my feelings a little that you've never come on to me." And he'd given her exactly what she'd asked for and it had been…wonderful.

There was no doubt in her mind now that Jane wanted her, but the question was did he want her because he felt something real or was he just jealous that his friend was being taken away from him. He'd never gotten this possessive before, but she'd never dated anyone like Marcus before. All her other boyfriends had been forgone conclusions—too needy, too selfish, too shallow. Only Marcus seemed like he could genuinely be right for her.

And then Jane stepped in and made her head spin with his magic hands and lips. Goddamn the man.

At least she knew now that he was as good as she'd always expected.

And while she was here, thinking of Jane's fingers, Marcus was back in Austin having a panic attack because she might get shot by the art mafia.

She slowed as she approached the driveway to the mansion. She didn't have any answers, but she was sufficiently exhausted that she didn't want to hit anything anymore.

She pushed open the door and the air conditioning hit her in a blissfully cool wave. The sweat chilled on her neck and back. Jane was sitting in the living room, one ankle crossed over his knee. He held a bottle of water in his hand, extending it out to her.

"I've figured it out," he announced.

"And?" She was still out of breath. She took the water and uncapped it, swallowing mouthfuls.

"If we want to be convincing art thieves, we need to steal some art."

**Starry is up next. Don't forget to click the review button (you know you want to).**


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Hello! Thanks for sticking with us! Mlee and I appreciate all of your wonderful support! You make our days (seriously)!

Ultra Violet

Chapter Six

When he had a master plan, Patrick Jane was an immovable force of nature.

Which was how she found herself in the back of an empty catering van, clad all in black, feeling like she had just stepped into some B-grade art-heist movie.

Of course, the museum knew they were coming, having arranged it all with the FBI before. Still, it was important to go through all the right motions, just in case someone else was watching.

There was still something that felt a little off about this operation, but right now, she couldn't focus on that.

They had a brief window of time, about ten minutes, where the security system would be off. In that time period, they needed to enter the museum, steal a Jackson Pollock, and be on their way.

The painting was famous and would normally be an impractical item to put on the black market, but Jane had assured her that there were enough knock-offs floating around to make it believable.

Speaking of Jane, he looked more excited than a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Apparently, robbing museums really tripped his trigger.

She rolled her eyes.

Jane checked his watched again, pulled his black stocking hat down farther, blonde curls almost completely hidden. "Almost time, Lisbon," he informed her cheerfully. "Ready to go?"

She nodded, sighing. "Yup." Slowly, she tugged on her black gloves.

Two minutes later, she was huddled around the service entrance of the place, waiting for the signal from museum security that they were all clear. It wouldn't do to be early and set the alarms off. That would lead to lots of very awkward questions and possibly their arrest.

When she heard the three knocks, she nodded at Jane, then pulled the door open and crept inside.

The museum was dark, lit only by the glow of exit signs, and she turned on her tiny flashlight.

"I feel like I'm in an Ocean's Eleven movie," Jane whispered loudly, clearly still wound up.

She kept silent, intent on doing their job and getting the hell out of there. It didn't take long to find what they were looking for, especially since Jane had insisted on "casing the joint, Lisbon!" earlier that day.

And so they'd showed up at the gallery, dressed in their new wardrobe, Jane's arm around her waist. She tried to look bored and, well, like a yuppie, but it was difficult when he kept whispering in her ear, even if it was related to their plan.

She studied the painting in front of her with something approaching wonderment. Who the hell would pay $40 million for something that looked like a paint pallet just exploded on a canvas? One of the many reasons she wasn't cut out to be upper class - she lacked a distinct appreciation for the finer things in life.

Thirty seconds later, they had the painting off the wall. This was easy when the museum curator himself had given them instructions on how to do it the best way.

Now came the tricky part - they had to get the painting to the van without any pedestrians seeing them. The museum might be in on the trick, but the general public certainly was not, and the last thing they needed was some well-meaning good Samaritan stepping in and blundering the whole operation up.

The painting wasn't exactly heavy, but it was certainly awkward to handle, even with Jane on one end of it.

He checked his watch with some difficulty. "Move," he told her. "We have exactly two minutes to get out of here."

Swearing under her breath, she half-ran, Jane a few steps behind her. Her mental clock was ticking loudly in her mind.

Her hand slipped on the doorknob, once, twice, before she finally managed to tug the damned thing open, the cooler night air making her shiver. She had worked up a sweat during their heist, and the clammy feeling the change in temperature caused was unwelcome.

Quickly, they stashed the painting in the back of the van, in a special museum-approved case. It had been a condition of their cooperation, one that she whole-heartedly agreed with. The FBI would probably have a heart attack if they wound up with a bill for damages to a ridiculously valuable piece of art.

As soon as she climbed in the passenger seat of the van, Jane driving as a deference to their cover story, she yanked off her own hat, fingers running through her sweaty hair.

Jane did the same, grinning widely. "What a rush, huh?"

"You're insane," she told him conversationally, compulsively checking the side mirror.

"I don't think that was as fun as when I robbed that Russian gangster, but still, it was a good time." Despite her better efforts, his smile was catching, the left-over adrenaline coursing through her system.

"It was certainly intense," she allowed, "but I sincerely hope we don't have to do it again."

"Meh," he said. "You're too much of a cop to enjoy it. You're too used to going in with guns blazing, announcing your esteemed federal presence to the bad guys."

"Yeah," she snorted, "that's clearly a failing of mine - being the good guy."

Though he said nothing, he raised his eyebrows suggestively and she swatted him.

In another ten minutes or so, she was fairly certain they weren't being followed and she let herself relax. Or rather, she tried, one of her legs still bouncing involuntarily.

Jane drove the van into their fake home's attached garage, waiting until the overhead door was completely shut before getting out.

They hid the painting in the upstairs safe, then she called Marcus to let him know things had gone as planned.

Jane left during the exchange, his expression telling her that he clearly wanted nothing to do with it.

Marcus wanted to talk, she knew that, but she feigned exhaustion instead, saying that fake-robbing a museum took a lot out of her. In reality, conversation with him was the last thing she wanted.

And that made her feel guilty. Again.

She'd been about five minutes away from begging Jane to make love to her on a couch last night, had slept in his arms, had spent an indecent time thinking about both things during the day, and she felt guilty for not wanting to talk to Marcus?

She retreated to the bedroom, yanking off her black sweater. God, Los Angeles was far too hot to be wandering around in winter clothing, burgling various items. From the window, she could see the pool.

And, hey, what the hell?

In her bizarre, uncharacteristic wardrobe, there was a bikini. She wondered who had picked it out. Jane, probably, because that sounded like something he would do.

She wondered if she was a little tipsy, despite not having had a drink all day. Drunk on adrenaline, on the roll she was playing. It was dangerous, but after the day she'd had, she wasn't inclined to be too hard on herself.

With a shrug, she slipped into the bathing suit, then stared critically at her reflection. Not terrible, she admitted, though things certainly didn't look the way they had when she was eighteen. And, hey, her boobs looked amazing in the top.

Not that anyone was going to be looking at them.

It was still nice to know.

Wrapped in a fluffy white robe, she padded barefoot through the house, no Jane anywhere in sight. Part of her was disappointed, a larger part than she cared to think about.

She opened the patio door, the air now feeling warm thanks to the humming air conditioner. The darkness was quiet, insects buzzing harmlessly around in the distance.

Feeling unaccountably brazen, she undid her robe, tossed it over one deck chair, then carefully waded down the few steps into the pool proper.

The water was almost hot, reflecting the warmth of the day, and she lazily swam to the deepest end and back a few times. When she was tired of that, she turned onto her back, floating aimlessly, kicking just enough to keep her face above the surface. The water was around her ears, making the whole world sound strange and far away.

It was peaceful, serene.

At least until a splashing wave hit her.

She sputtered, went under for a moment, then emerged, coughing.

"Jane, what the hell?" she demanded.

XxXxXxXxX

It hadn't even been a voluntary decision, joining her in the pool. As soon as he'd seen her from the window, his legs had been carrying him without thought.

There was not a chance in hell he was going to make the mistake of missing a wet and mostly-naked Teresa Lisbon. Even if he'd seen her...well...wet and mostly naked the night before.

Swimming trunks were not good things to be wearing when thinking these thoughts.

He sucked a deep breath in.

He hoped the water was cold.

It wasn't.

In fact, it was perfect, even allowing for the angry, half-drowned woman who looked like she wanted to hold his head under the water.

"Night night for a swim," he said winningly.

Lisbon made her way back to the shallow end, and he watched her emerge from the water inch by delicious inch.

"Wait," he said, when she didn't stop. "Come back. I didn't mean to ruin your swim."

Reluctantly, she turned. "Jane, what the hell are you doing out here?"

Hoping you don't feel guilty anymore. Hoping you don't regret what happened last night. Ogling you. Sort of hoping I can make you forget about Marcus Fucking Pike.

"Swimming, obviously," he told her.

Lisbon, to her credit, looked openly skeptical. He could tell that she was guessing he was there for all the reasons he was actually there.

"I'll be good," he said, quietly. Unless you want me to not be. "Besides, swimming is probably a good way to burn off some energy. Lots of adrenaline running around tonight."

Her hesitation told him that she wanted to stay, probably despite her better judgement. He made another attempt to put her mind at ease, half-diving into the water and swimming a quick lap.

When he emerged, Lisbon had come a bit closer, still unsure.

So he splashed her.

Predictably, and as he'd hoped, she retaliated in grand fashion. He didn't fight back, not really, letting her put her hands on him. Playfully, she dunked him, and, under the water, he put his hands on her hips.

She stilled, and he rose above the surface, keeping his hold on her.

They were close, very close, and he could read her desire on her face. She might as well have been wearing a sign.

"Jane..." she said quietly, as he leaned forward.

"Hm?" There were water droplets on her eyelashes.

"We can't keep doing this." She was looking at his mouth.

"Doing what?" he asked, closer still. "Making out all over the house?"

"Yes," she nodded. "That."

He smiled, just a little. "Then tell me to stop."

He kissed her, and she wound her arms around his neck immediately, not even putting up a token amount of resistance. Her mouth was warm, open, her wet hair dripping down her back.

Gently, he walked them backwards until reaching the edge of the pool, a wall at her back. He moved his lips to her neck, and she titled her head to the side, nails grazing his shoulders.

"I want you," he whispered, and she shook her head.

Still, she didn't stop him, didn't protest when he tugged at the string of her bikini top, pulled her flush against him.

Wet, naked heat.

In the back of his mind, he knew he really didn't want this to happen in a pool, but when she slid her hands down his stomach, he thought he might not have a choice in the matter.

Her fingers skimmed the front of his swimming trunks, tracing the shape of him, and he gasped out a shaky breath against her neck.

"Be careful, woman," he murmured. "You're getting perilously close to the point of no return."

To his shocked disappointment, her hand returned to his waist, firmly in the safe territory. "Lisbon?" he asked.

She shook her head again. "I can't." Her jaw tightened. "Jane...I just don't know what's going on." She sighed, now tugging her top back into place.

He ran a hand through his hair. "You know what's going on," he told her. "You just don't know what you're going to do about it."

Anger sparked in her eyes. "What the hell does that mean?"

Jane took a step back, putting some needed space between them. "Fine. I'll spell it out. You're dating Pike." He practically spat the word. "And you feel loyal towards him. But apparently not loyal enough to stop yourself from fooling around with me three times in the past twenty four hours. Oh, and letting me sleep next to you."

In the dimness, her cheeks took on a deeper color. "Jane-"

"No," he cut her off. "I know you, Lisbon. Better than anyone else ever will. Better than anyone else ever could. If you didn't want me, we wouldn't be here." He blinked, then softened his voice. "Yours is not the only heart in danger, Teresa. Yours is not the only heart that can break."

He left her in the pool, looking like she was on the verge of tears, and slowly made his way back to the house. He shed his wet clothes, pulled on the first things he found, and retreated to the couch.

Twenty minutes later, he heard her open the door, softly walk in, heard sodden clothing hitting the floor of the bedroom.

The shower ran, and he tried to not imagine her in it.

Her footsteps came near him again, five minutes after the water had shut off, but he kept his eyes closed.

There was a hesitation, and then he felt the corner of his blanket being tugged up.

His lids opened in a rush. "What are you doing?"

Lisbon, wearing those damnable red pajamas, was determinedly climbing onto the couch next to him, squirming her way into his arms.

"Don't say a word," she warned when her face was pressed against his heart. "Don't say a damn thing."

So he didn't.


	7. Chapter 7

**Ultra Violet**

**Chapter Seven**

**This chapter is rated M. **

Jane lay on his side, tucked against Lisbon's back, not sleeping. Her breathing had long ago fallen into a slow and even rhythm, her body limp with fatigue. Even though she had showered, he could smell the faint scent of chlorine in her hair.

He was content to lay here like this, feeling her warmth, listening to her quiet sounds. He'd missed the joy of sleeping with a lover, even if he and Lisbon weren't technically there yet. There was such safety and comfort in feeling another body beside you in the middle of the night, in the casual brush of a foot, the caress of a hand.

The fact that Lisbon craved this closeness with him told him volumes. She was trusting him with more intimacy than she was Marcus. She wanted him nearby when she was at her most vulnerable.

He slept on couches, in cars, wherever he could nod off because if he just fell asleep where he was, then he wasn't going to bed. And if he wasn't going to bed, he couldn't go to bed alone.

When Red John had murdered his wife and daughter he'd done so in their bedroom, profaning that sacred space. The bed was where they rested, made love, created Charlotte. He had befouled it. Ever since then Jane couldn't lay down to sleep in a bed without thinking of the blood stains and the smell and the absolute mind-blanking terror.

Except now. Except with her.

In this space he was safe and warm and wanted. It was as powerful a narcotic as an opiate.

Lisbon shifted in her sleep, her nightgown bunching around her hips. He let his hand rest against the skin of her flat stomach, running his thumb gently back and forth beneath her navel. When she sighed he let his hand creep up, his fingers brushing the downy skin beneath her breast. It was sexual and it wasn't all at once.

She shifted, her head turning slightly toward him. "Are you copping a feel?" she asked sleepily.

"Did you really invite me in here and not expect me to?" he asked, teasing.

"Hmm," she said. She nestled back into her pillow, but he could tell she wasn't really sleeping.

They were silent. There was a hum as the air conditioning kicked in.

"Are you hot?" she asked.

He was still fully clothed—shirt, socks, slacks. He was half under the blankets with her.

"A little," he said.

Her voice was very quiet. "It's okay if you want to get undressed."

He felt his pulse kick in his neck. He wasn't sure if she was coming onto him or simply being practical. She'd seen him in his swim trunks, which were essentially the same thing as underwear. Regardless, he wasn't giving up the opportunity.

He shifted away from her and sat up. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, then pulled it over his head. He slipped out of his pants and toed off his socks. When he curled around her again the naked skin of his legs met hers, and she felt feverishly hot. He wrapped his arm around her.

He debated rolling her over and kissing her, seducing her. He was afraid to make a move, and to not make one.

"Why now?" she asked quietly.

He breathed in the smell of her hair. "Hmm?" he asked, even though he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"I finally find a nice guy, a _really_ nice guy," she whispered. "And that's when you decide to come on to me."

He stroked her belly again and she shivered. "I guess I finally realized I could lose you," he said.

He could hear her licking her lips, preparing herself for the next words. "Is this just because you don't want to lose your best friend? Marcus comes in and he offers me a real relationship…and you don't want to share your toys?"

"I think I've made it pretty apparent that my feelings toward you aren't platonic," he said dryly, annoyed with her constant self-doubt. If she was paying attention, and he knew she was, then she was well aware that he was already hard.

"Yeah, but sex and friendship aren't a relationship," she argued. "You can put out and you can be my friend, but that doesn't mean you'll love me." She took a breath. "Not really. Not in the way I need you to."

His throat went tight. _Not in the way I need you to._

He hadn't been sure he could love anyone like again. It had taken two years of solitary confinement in Venezuela to make him realize that he had been quietly healing all while he was focused on Red John. He'd been falling in love with her for ten years and not noticing.

Still, it was a huge shift in their relationship. A seismic shift.

"What do you want?" he asked seriously. "A lover? A boyfriend? A husband?"

Somehow in the darkness, not looking at each other, it was easier to say these things.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe all of them—in that order. But I have to know that this is going somewhere. I'm not going to break up with Marcus for a one-night stand with you, and then another decade of being alone."

Had she really been waiting for him? God, he hoped not. But secretly he knew it was true. If she'd been serious with anyone else back then he might have wished her well and not seen what he was losing.

"Teresa, if you give me one night, I'll give you all the rest," he promised.

After a beat she said, "Okay," and rolled to face him.

She kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her tongue snaking out to meet his.

It was strangely awkward at first, now that they were really thinking about it. They weren't just thinking about sex anymore, they were thinking about a relationship, about the morning after, about everything. It was too much pressure.

She pulled back. "This feels weird," she said, embarrassed.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked, discouraged.

"No, I just thought…" She thought fireworks. That they would come together in some emotionally charged moment that left them both gasping.

Laying here in their faux-marriage bed felt pious somehow.

He got up, tugging on her hand. "Come with me," he said.

He led her down the stairs to the black leather couch. He lay down on his back and tugged her down on top of him, shifting her so they were face to face.

He kissed her, twining his fingers through her hair, moving his legs so she was cradled between them, his erection pressed to her abdomen. He felt the mood change instantly, the fire start to build between them. This is where it should have happened the first time, back at the CBI, in the dark bullpen after everyone had gone home for the night.

He should have pulled her on top of him one night when she said good bye and kissed her senseless and made love to her.

She sighed against his mouth and he moved his hands down her back, to the edges of the nightgown. He pulled it up and over her head, tossing it unceremoniously on the floor. She sat up straight, straddled him, and looked down at him with dark, liquid eyes.

Her mother's cross glinted in against the skin of her throat. He traced it with his fingers, then pulled her down so that he could take her nipple into his mouth, stroking the peak to hardness with his tongue. He relished the clean taste of her skin, her little moans of pleasure.

His other hand skimmed her thigh, fingers brushing the edge of her panties. He pushed them aside and found her wet and hot. He pushed a finger inside of her.

"Jane," she whispered, her voice half keening.

He moved his mouth to her other breast, his thumb stroking her clitoris. She rocked against him, reaching behind her back to stroke him through the fabric of his boxers.

"This is going to sound awful," he said, pulling his mouth away from her skin. "But I can dazzle you with foreplay the second time?"

She laughed, dark and rich, and the sound sent little frissions of pleasure through his body. "Oh, God, yes," she said.

There was some scrambling to remove underwear, and then she was guiding him inside of her, enveloping him in liquid heat. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing closed.

She braced her hands on either side of his head, and began to move, her hips rolling, her knees braced on either side of him. She found the angle she wanted, and her head fell back, a long moan escaping her. He held her hips, helped her move, bucked up underneath her.

She moved her face closer to his, her eyes squeezed closed and intent.

"Look at me," he said, thrusting up into her.

She opened her eyes, watched his face. Her expression was serious and maybe a little self-conscious and flushed.

"Did you ever fantasize about this?" he asked, his breathing ragged, his hands now on her ass, speeding up their movement. "Did you ever think about taking me on the couch at the CBI?"

He could see the flush run up her neck, even in the darkness. Sexy, predatory Lisbon, having her way with him at work. It was a fantasy he'd enjoyed, that was for certain.

"In my office," she said breathlessly. "The couch in my office."

He groaned and kissed her, his tongue thrusting, then moved to lick the skin of her neck, bite one shoulder.

"You should have," he murmured against her shoulder. "God, you should have."

"You'd never let me," she moaned. She was focused now, so close. She came with a gasp and stifled cry, her movements erratic and jerking.

She was right. He would have brushed her off, but been charming about it.

When she'd come down a little he rolled them so she was beneath him, then pulled her knees up to either side of his hips. Looking down at her he said, "I was fucked up for a long time. I'm ready now, okay? I'm ready to be with you."

She bit her lip and nodded, her eyes a little wet. When he kissed her she tasted damp and salty and desperate.

He thrust into her, rough and uneven, his tempo thrown off by every clench of her body. Sweat was running down his back when he collapsed on top of her, his shout ringing off the walls.

She locked her arms around his back, holding him tightly against her, kissing his damp curls.

XXX

She woke up stiff from sleeping on the couch, Jane sound asleep and wrapped around her. It took a colossal effort to pry his arms loose. As she left him to get ready, she tossed the blanket over his naked body. Her nightgown was in a pile under the couch, and she pulled it on hastily.

She had to break up with Marcus, she knew, but wasn't going to do it by text. Lisbon knew she owed the other agent a face to face talk. It was going suck.

As she made her way into the kitchen for coffee and a muffin she saw her phone blinking. It was the secure FBI cell.

She brought up her text messages. Sarah Cameron had texted late in the night. Call me. _We have a buyer for the Pollack. Need to set up meeting. _


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Starry here! Hope you all are enjoying this! I'm having fun writing it, I can tell you that.

Thanks to everyone for your support. It means the world to us, I promise.

Probably safe to slap this particular chapter with a bit of an M-rating. You've been warned.

Ultra Violet

Chapter Eight

Jane's first thought upon waking was that he was alone, and that he shouldn't be.

He sat up with some difficulty, skin sticking a little to the leather. Sleeping by himself on a couch was something he was quite used to. Having fairly vigorous sex on one was an entirely different situation.

There was a throw blanket draped over him, evidence that Lisbon had been there and gone. Too bad - he had been rather looking forward to waking with her in his arms.

The morning was gray still, the sun fighting to peek through the cover of smog and clouds that always seemed to hang low over the city. His feet were cold when they hit the floor.

"Hey there, sleepy head," Lisbon's voice called playfully, and he craned his head to look for her.

She was sitting on a barstool in the kitchen, still just in the pajamas (the ones he could distinctly recall removing a few hours ago), laptop open on the countertop, steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Her face was bare of makeup, hair falling in messy waves down her back, lips a bit swollen. She was gorgeous.

"Hey, yourself," he replied, shimmying into his boxers and standing.

Lisbon followed his every move, and he felt the first touch of self-consciousness. Still, he grinned a little, crossed the room and kissed her soundly. She tasted like hazelnut coffee and sugar. Her fingers pressed against his jaw, soft skin catching a little on his stubble.

"So, what's so important that you had to get up and leave me?" he asked, resting his chin on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her from behind, looking absently at her computer screen.

"Cameron messaged me last night," she told him, and he could feel her skin flush. "I think we may have been a little wrapped up and didn't hear it."

"Mm," he hummed, nuzzling her neck. "What did our esteemed handler want?"

Lisbon sighed. "We have a buyer for our painting. Apparently, good news travels fast. We need to set up a meet with them."

"Interesting," he said. "That was quick. Alarmingly quick."

There were warning bells going off in his mind. Something was off again, just like it had been for this whole operation. But what?

"That's what I thought," Lisbon told him, frowning now. "But I think the FBI may have tipped off some of their other undercover agents, and they pointed our art thieves in the right direction."

A supremely plausible theory, but he still didn't like it.

Lisbon nudged him. "Go get dressed. I need to set up a video chat with Fischer and Wylie, and you should probably not be half-naked for it."

He smirked. "Oh, where's your sense of adventure?" But he went upstairs anyway, shrugging on the first things his hands touched.

The unmade bed looked lonely, he thought. He needed to rectify that. Just not at this exact second, which was a pity.

By the time he made it back to the kitchen, the connection with the other agents had been made, and he stood beside Lisbon this time.

"Jane, nice of you to join us," Kim said, her typical sarcasm showing.

He smiled charmingly. "I'm delighted to be here." And he was. He was in a house, alone with Lisbon, and he had no reason to think he wouldn't be taking her back to bed as soon as this little conference was over.

"So, what's the plan?" Wylie asked excitedly, clearly caught up in the undercover mythology.

"Agent Cameron has been in touch with us this morning," Fischer informed them, looking down at what was presumably her notes. "You are going to meet with these buyers at 8:30 tonight. Your location is somewhere in the warehouse district. We're putting people on it right now, so you'll be covered from all sides."

"And you want us to do what, exactly?" Lisbon asked, now the consummate professional.

"You will make the exchange as cleanly as possible," Fischer instructed. "Make sure you remember license plate numbers of whatever vehicle they're driving, just in case. Once the purchase is complete, you will come back to the house. The FBI tactical team, with the help of the LAPD, will then apprehend the buyers."

"Do we think these are the people that executed the other agents?" Jane asked, leaning closer to the screen. He put a hand on Lisbon's thigh, hidden from view by the granite countertop.

"Agent Cameron seems to think so," Fischer said. "She said they are acting in a manner consistent with the thieves that were being infiltrated by the murdered operatives. We're taking her word for it; she knows this case much better than we do."

Underneath his palm, he felt Lisbon stiffen, and he knew she felt the same apprehension he did. Judging by Fischer's uneasy expression, she did as well.

But it was Wylie that spoke up. "Do you guys think that this is a little too easy? Like, freakishly easy?"

"Yes," Lisbon said quietly. "I feel like we're missing something important."

"Well, that's because we are," Jane added. "I don't know what, exactly, but it's something big."

Fischer nodded solemnly. "I agree. Make sure you go armed to this meeting, regardless of your handler's instructions. There are also GPS locators in one of your suitcases. Attach them to yourselves. I don't want to take chances."

He wanted to point out that GPS trackers would be very little help with a gunshot to the head, but kept his mouth shut.

"Wylie will e-mail you the precise details," Fischer went on. "Make sure you contact both myself and Agent Cameron if anything changes. Agent Pike said he would be in touch sometime this afternoon to brief you both on who they think is behind this specific ring."

After the connection ended, Lisbon frowned at the screen. "This makes me nervous."

He tapped his fingers against her leg. "It should."

She chewed on her bottom lip. "I hate going into this blind."

There was nothing they could do about that, not at the moment, so he just sighed and moved his hands to her tense shoulders. She leaned back into him, tilting her head to the side as he brushed a row of light kisses down her neck.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and he slid his hands lower, cupping her breasts.

She hummed appreciatively, arching into his touch.

"Why, Agent Lisbon," he whispered, lips against her ear. "Did you just video conference fellow FBI agents while not wearing a bra?"

He trailed one hand lower, reaching beneath the hem of her pajamas. She wasn't wearing panties either, and he stroked her softly, fingers sliding easily over her aroused sex.

"Jane," she almost groaned, hips starting to instinctively grind against his palm.

He continued for a moment longer. "Can I take you to bed?" he whispered hotly, and felt her shiver.

"Yes," she gasped out.

By the time they made it upstairs, she was completely nude and his shirt was missing. Carefully, he settled her on the bed, taking a beat to simply remember what she looked like, all rosy flesh and messy hair.

He had promised to dazzle her with foreplay their second time, and he meant to keep that promise.

He made love to her in slow degrees, loving how her fingers clenched in the sheets, or in his hair, how she said his name, what she tasted like under his tongue. Gently, mindful of the fact that she was probably sore, he eased his fingers inside of her, relishing the feel of her clenching muscles.

Finally, finally, he gave into her pleas and knelt between her legs, pushing slowly, inexorably forward, watching her face.

He kept his pace slow, maddeningly slow, for both of them, her nails digging into his back, her hips trying to urge him on.

Without warning, he changed the angle, thrusting almost roughly, the headboard slamming against the wall, and she moaned, legs wrapping around his waist.

In this case, what she wanted and what he wanted were the same thing, and he lost himself in her, everything besides Lisbon fading into the background. She said his name once, his first name, convulsing around him, and he let go, his hoarse groan of satisfaction muffled in her neck.

He laid in her arms then, cheek against her breasts, her hands sliding soothingly down his back. It had been twelve years since he'd been held like this, by someone who loved him, and he could literally feel the ragged edges of his heart smoothing out.

"I don't want to go tonight," she finally whispered. "I just want to stay here."

He smiled against her skin. "Me, too," he said. "But the sooner we get this over, the sooner we can go home and do this every night."

He knew the kind of reaction his words would elicit, especially his use of the word home, but he meant them. It was time to get on with life, and he was going to start over with Lisbon - his partner, his best friend, his lover.

His happy ever after, part two.

For just a second, he was profoundly grateful to the universe. Most people never got one shot at real happiness, and he had been given two. He used to think Angela was his soul mate, as romantic and whimsical as that seemed. Perhaps she still was, would always be, but Lisbon was the love of his life.

Some time later, they untangled themselves, showered, and started to plan out their evening.

Lisbon had a great deal of difficulty finding a dress that would hide a handgun, and so she eventually had to settle for slipping one into her clutch purse and strapping an ankle holster on him. The weight felt strange, burdening, and he didn't like it.

Tension, and not the fun, sexual kind, was thick on the ground when Pike called in the afternoon.

He could see the lines of stress in Lisbon's face as she answered, putting her (ex? currently being cheated on?) boyfriend on speaker phone.

"Are you guys ready for this?" Pike asked, and Jane knew the question wasn't directed at him. He answered anyway.

"Ready to get this over. There's something strange going on here."

Lisbon, sitting next to him, laced their fingers together. She felt awkward about all of this, and he supposed he couldn't blame her.

"It's not too late to back out if you think this is going to end badly," Pike told them, and again, Jane knew the words weren't for him. "Honestly, I'd feel better pulling you out of the field, at least until we know more."

"Not happening," Lisbon said, voice steady. "Federal agents have been murdered over this, Marcus, and we don't know why. Look, it's not like we get this sort of opportunity every day. We have a painting, we have a buyer, and we're going through with it."

Pike sighed, and Jane knew he was worried. "Alright," he conceded. "But at any time, if you think this operation is going to hell in a hand-basket, get your asses out of there."

"Roger that," Jane answered. "Now, tell us about this art ring you think we're dealing with."

There was no sound of paper rustling, meaning Pike knew all of this information by heart. "We still don't know for certain who's running the show, though we've heard a few different rumors. Whoever they are, they're smooth, well-connected, and they seem to know exactly what we're going to do before we do it."

The smart ones were the worst. They were also the most satisfying to catch.

"However, they've never killed anyone until now, so that makes us think there's some inner turmoil within the group. Maybe a power play for a new leader, or maybe our agents were just unlucky. I don't like that theory though."

There was a slight pause.

"How did we find a buyer so quickly?" Jane asked.

"Your handler was in contact with one of our covert operations team, someone else inside the organization," Pike told him. "Also, these people keep an ear to the ground as far as art theft is concerned, so they probably knew within the hour that the painting was gone. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if they had intended to go after it themselves."

"Very thoughtful of us to do it for them," Jane muttered to himself.

"The organization knew there were new players in town," Pike went on. "You were seen at that nightclub, though I'm not sure why they didn't make contact there."

Jane suggestively raised his eyebrows at Lisbon. Swingers. Honestly.

"Anything else important you can think of?" she asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

"Not much," Pike said. "Just...please be careful. If this goes well, you'll be back in Texas tomorrow." There was affection in his voice, and Lisbon shifted uncomfortably.

"Will do," Jane said, taking over. "We'll be in touch."

He ended the call, then turned to the woman next to him. "Well, that was awkward."

Unexpectedly, she chuckled, one hand pressing against her forehead. "No kidding?"

He leaned forward, kissed her gently. "It'll be fine."

Her phone beeped, letting them know that Wylie's e-mail with directions and further instructions had come through. Lisbon scanned the small screen and he read over her shoulder, memorizing the game plan.

It looked straight-forward enough, but he didn't trust it.

Two hours later, they were in their borrowed luxury SUV, painting resting carefully in the back. Lisbon kept glancing at it nervously, then fingering the gun in her purse. She was edgy, but so was he. Something was scratching at the back of his brain.

Just as he was turning on to the freeway, Lisbon's phone went off. She checked her messages quickly.

"It's from Agent Cameron," she said in a rush. "She says there was just a shooting a block away from where the drop was going to happen, and cops are crawling around the place. Buyers want to move the location. Like, now."

He swore. Their FBI protection was at the first site, but they couldn't very well go through with plan number one.

"Do it," he said, "then call Fischer. It might not be too late to get us some backup."

Lisbon pushed the buttons on her phone rapidly, then hurriedly spelled out the situation to Kim. The other agent was less than pleased, but she knew it had to happen.

The sun had well and truly set by the time they reached their new location, and his heart rate had picked up. It was decidedly secluded, on the very outskirts of the city, the sort of place where no one saw anything, ever, no matter how many times the police asked them.

It was a good place to die.

The GPS on Lisbon's phone announced their destination was on the left, and he sucked in a deep breath.

"Well," he said, as the van across the street flicked its lights at them, "shall we go?" He kept his voice light, easy. "Remember," he added, "you're a professional art thief. You meet people in darkened alleys all the time."

Her fingers were tight against the fabric of her purse, and he pried them loose for a moment to press a soft kiss on her knuckles.

The night air was choking, he thought, as he stepped out of the car, walked to Lisbon's side and helped her out.

"Here we go," he muttered.

He had a feeling hell was about to break loose.

He was right.


	9. Chapter 9

**Ultra Violet**

**Chapter 9**

Broken glass crunched under the soles of his shoes as they entered the alley. Teresa's hand had slipped into her bag, fingers no doubt brushing the gun.

There was a shadowy figure at the end of the dark alley, his face obscured.

"Mr. Smith," the man said.

"Why don't you come out here and spare us the horrible clichés?" Jane asked, affecting a bored tone. "I think there was a coffee shop a few miles away. We can sit down and talk about this like civilized people?"

"I'm not civilized people," the man replied, stepping forward. It was hard to make out his features in the half-light, but he didn't look like an art thief. He looked like someone who made people disappear, the sort of man who specialized in cement shoes.

"We really don't appreciate the change in venue," Jane added irritably. How long would it take backup to arrive? Five minutes? Ten? He needed to stall. "But I love what you've done with the place. The pee smell is a very nice touch."

The man smiled, a crooked shark smile. "If you're making small talk while you wait for your backup to arrive, you're wasting your time," the man said coldly. "They've been detained."

It happened so fast. Teresa pulled her gun, but was struck from behind by an unseen assailant. Jane lunged for the attacker, but was struck in the face with the butt of a gun. He stumbled to his knees, the world going black for a second. He cut his palm on the broken glass.

Teresa recovered quickly, shirking left, then punching her attacker in the stomach hard enough that doubled over. She raised her knee quickly, breaking his nose and sending him to the ground in a heap. She turned to the man with the shark-smile but he already had a gun pointed at her.

Jane didn't think, his mind blank with terror and rage, and he lunged at the man, tackling him in the middle. He stumbled back, gun going off harmlessly in the air. Teresa jumped for Jane's ankle, for the revolver strapped there but let out a pained shriek.

Jane swung his head around. The man whose nose she had broken had her by her hair, a knife a pressed to her throat. Before Jane could act he felt the butt of the other man's gun hit his temple. He slumped to the ground, vision blanking, barely holding onto to consciousness.

The man who held Teresa captive pulled the knife away long enough to shove her toward Jane. He reached out and hit her across the face brutally, making her head snap to the side. Blood oozed out of her split lip.

"Bitch," he said, his voice muffled, blood running down from his broken nose. "I should cut your face."

Hatred, cold and inky and vicious, coiled in Jane's stomach.

"Enough," said the man with the gun.

Jane blinked into a sudden beam of light as a van turned into the alley, its headlights hitting him squarely in the face. Pain lanced through his head and for a moment he thought he'd throw up.

They were hoisted unceremoniously to their feet, hands zip-tied behind them. Their captors forced them into the back of the van. When Teresa landed a vicious kick at one of the kidnapper's shin, her ankles were tied too.

The van doors closed, leaving them in darkness, and Jane began to shift around, struggling to find something sharp enough to cut his ties on.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice nearly breathless.

"I've had better days," she said drily.

His Lisbon. A trooper.

"How's your face?" he asked, hating that he couldn't protect her. He knew he was no match for armed thugs, but a part of him was filled with self-loathing. He wanted to keep her safe, happy always.

"I'll live," she said. "Although I might not be much to look at in the morning."

_If they were alive in the morning._

"They took my bag," she said pointedly.

He still had the gun strapped to his ankle. "The one I bought you for Christmas? What a shame. Luckily I still have that present you gave me," he said, in case they were listening.

If they had tied her hands in front of her then she could have pulled the gun off his ankle and used it. Behind her back, her hands were useless. It was better to save the weapon for later.

"They knew who we are," Teresa said. "Someone inside tipped them off. There's a mole in the FBI."

He didn't reply. His brain was busy going through potential suspects. Agent Cameron was at the top of his list.

Unable to free himself he wormed his way toward Teresa so he could at least sit next to her. "We'll get out of this," he said quietly. He couldn't see her face in the dark.

"If we don't," she said seriously. "I need you to know I love you."

"I love you too," he replied quietly. "I'm sorry it took me so long to say it."

Moments ticked by, then he said, "I fell in love with you a long time ago and never let myself realize it. When I was in Venezuela, I missed you so badly it hurt. I thought killing Red John would free me, but it just made a prisoner in another way. I missed you and the team and our job, horribly. But I missed you the most."

"I read your letters every day," she whispered. "I wanted to come find you so much, but I knew the FBI was watching."

He didn't say that he should have let Red John live because it was a lie. He regretted his decision in some way. He regretted that he couldn't just move on, let go of his anger, and settle down with Teresa years ago. He wasn't that kind of man. Even if he'd tried, part of him would always be tied to his rage and grief.

Now he could put it past him—had put it past him. Wearing his wedding ring, being unavailable, that was more out of habit than necessity. It had taken Pike to make him realize he was finally ready to love Teresa, to commit to her fully.

_And now they were probably going to die._

"When did you fall in love with me," he asked, although he thought he already knew.

"I don't know," she said. "It happened so slowly. Maybe when you stayed with me when I had that bomb strapped to my chest. Or when you helped me take down Carmen, when everyone else thought I was crazy." She sighed. "It was probably something stupid and mundane. Like over an ice cream sundae or when you left me an origami rabbit."

"Frog," he said.

"Whatever," she said. Her voice was thick. "How about you?"

"The day you told me to clean myself up and get my ass in gear," he replied. "You were bossy and tough and not at all pitying. I was so unfocused I needed someone to tell me what to do. I was floundering. I was grateful for it."

He paused. "But I don't know when I realized it. When I had to shoot you, I suppose. It just slipped out."

"Yeah, remember how you took that back?" she said sarcastically.

"Sorry," he said. "But admit it, if I'd confessed my love in that crappy warehouse in Vegas you'd have freaked out."

She sighed. "Probably."

The van rattled to a halt and they blinked at the sudden light as the door slide open. They were hauled out, Jane allowed to walk, Teresa thrown over the shoulder of a brutish man.

They were outside an abandoned building in a terrible neighborhood. Windows were boarded up. Streetlights were out. Everything was covered in graffiti. In the distance a dog barked, but it was otherwise empty of people. Even if someone saw them, Jane doubted anyone would call 911.

Inside the building was empty except for broken bottles and trash. They were lead to an open room devoid of anything except a metal table and two chairs. The big man set Teresa in the chair, and the thug leading Jane pushed him down into the seat.

Jane glanced over at Teresa. Her lip was a livid red. Dried blood splattered her chin.

"What are we doing here?" Jane demanded.

His captor cuffed the back of his head. "Shut up," he ordered.

After a few tense moments they heard footsteps, then Agent Cameron entered the room. She looked less like an FBI agent now, dressed down in dark jeans and long-sleeved tee. She still wore her holster though.

"I figured it was you," Jane said calmly. "Let me guess, the art thieves gave you a cut of the deal if you looked the other way? Then two agents get a little too close so you take them out."

She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back against the metal table. "More or less."

"Which doesn't explain why we're here," Teresa said coldly. "No need to keep us alive."

Jane turned his head toward her. "Can you _not_ tell her that?"

Cameron smiled and it was frigid. "This actually has nothing to do with the stolen art," she replied. "I wasn't happy when the Austin office started interfering in my business, obviously, but then I found they were sending the illustrious Patrick Jane, and my heart skipped a beat."

"I have that effect on women," Jane replied.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "My friends and I have been looking for a way to get to you, Mr. Jane."

He felt his blood run cold with realization.

"You're Blake Association," Lisbon said.

Cameron smiled. "And you have a very special list, Mr. Jane. Rumor has it, that's why you're not in prison. The thing is, after everything went sideways, most of the members went to ground. So much for that Tyger Tyger bullshit. But the senior leaders in our little red army, they'd been squirrelling away funds just in case a day like this finally came."

"We saw Bertram's wine collection," Jane said dryly.

"Well, they left us foot soldiers out in the cold, so I'd really like that list," Cameron finished. "The FBI is going to figure out I've been dirty for a long time. I'd like to get my hands on what's mine and retire to a nice little island somewhere."

"Use the money from the stolen art," Teresa said.

"Not enough. Art takes _years_ to sell," Cameron replied. "Even then, I'm only getting a cut. And I have to pay my friends like Thomas here." She gestured to the man who met them in the alley. "He's a specialist, and specialists cost money. But it's hard to find someone who knows how to skin a person alive without killing them so…"

Jane felt a cold sweat trickle down his spine.

He shifted his weight and realized that they'd never taken his watch. The GPS watch. Clearly Wylie and Fischer had kept some things from Cameron. He felt a tiny ray of hope flicker inside him.

"Why would I give you the names?" he asked. "You'll just kill us."

"I'll just kill you anyway," Cameron said. "It's up to you how quickly I do it."

"I really like living," Jane replied. "So I'll go with the long-way, as awful as that sounds."

"I'm sure you'd hold out," Cameron said. "That's why I'm not going to touch you. I'm going to have Thomas here work his magic on your partner, and see how long you can watch her screaming in pain. Or maybe I can just have the boys pass her around for a little while. Would that bother you more?"

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kill Cameron with his bare hands.

"I don't know," Lisbon said drily, hiding the fear in her voice. "I assumed you were blowing all of them to get them to do your dirty work—" She stopped short when one of the thugs slapped her. Her lips opened again, more blood dribbling down.

He was terrified and seeing red at all once.

"Anyway," Cameron said, reaching into a sheath strapped to her ankle and pulling out a knife. "Shall we get started?"


	10. Chapter 10

**AN:** Well, hello folks! Thanks so much for sticking with us, and for all of your wonderful reviews. If you're interested, Mlee and I are both on Twitter, where there is a much shrieking about Mentalist-inspired feelings. And cats.

**Ultra Violet**

**Chapter Ten**

When she was in the police academy, a full lifetime ago, one of her instructors was taking the cadets through scenarios where the criminals could have the upper hand. Such a situation could be brought about by any number of circumstances, and they were being trained on how to react if they ever found themselves in a similar spot.

Rule number one: don't panic.

She couldn't remember the rest of them.

It was stupid; of course she shouldn't panic. Fear choked the brain, made thinking, made planning impossible.

Rationally, she knew all of that.

It didn't help.

No matter how she looked at the situation, she knew something awful was going to happen to her. There was, quite literally, no way around it.

Jane was restrained, fighting for all he was worth, and when the first man ran the flat edge of his blade down the front of her shirt, the noises he made were not human.

In the back of her mind, she hoped Jane didn't give in, didn't tell them a damn thing. She had lived her principles for so long and she would be damned if she'd give up on them now.

However, a rather large part of her wished he would tell them anything they wanted.

Because this was going to hurt.

She had been shot before, had felt a bullet rip through flesh and sinew, felt the burning ache of the wound. This would be different. Here, she couldn't focus on something more important. Before, with O'Lachlan, she had directed all of her energy on saving all their lives. The adrenaline, the planning, had given her purpose.

There were no such distractions here.

They were outnumbered, out-gunned. Even if she managed to get away from this one man, Thomas, she thought his name was, there were more to take his place.

Still, she would not go down without a fight.

This was her hill to die on, and she would stand until she could do so no longer.

At least, her brain reminded her, she could go to her death having known what it was like to be with Jane, at least for a few shining moments. Her one regret was that she would be denied a lifetime.

She raised her chin a fraction.

She was sure it didn't matter to Cameron, didn't matter to the men working for the Blake Association. But it mattered to her. She wasn't going to let her last moments on earth be spent crying and begging.

And it might matter to Jane.

Cameron knelt in front of her, eyes glittering maliciously. "Going to be brave?" she asked. She cut through the bonds that held her ankles, and Lisbon felt a thrill of foreboding. "That's adorable. But I should give you some advice - scream. It'll make it hurt less."

Lisbon clenched her jaw, biting down hard on her back teeth. Thought about spitting in the other woman's face, but settled for an expression of cold contempt.

Abruptly, Thomas grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerked her head back roughly. She felt the cold steel of a blade kissing the exposed skin of her neck.

Her pulse hammered, millimeters from the instrument that could stop it beating permanently.

"Pretty," the man said, voice oily and hoarse. A voice used to inspiring fear.

There was a pause, and she knew everyone was balanced on the edge of a precipice. Jane was hoping they wouldn't follow through, and Cameron was waiting to see if Jane would give in before they needed to persuade him further.

When no one moved, Thomas leaned closer, the knife pressing into her throat. And then his rough lips were on her neck, tongue darting out, and she wanted to vomit against the wet sensation.

He nipped a a breast through her shirt, and she had to tamp down fiercely on her revulsion, eyes wrenching shut.

There was a small snick as the blade severed a button to her shirt and she tensed. She was not going to be passive, and now that the blade was away from her throat...

In one jerky movement, she kicked upwards, connecting with Thomas's crotch. His howl of pain reached her, and as his hands left her, she lunged forward, aiming for Cameron with some crazy idea of at least taking the ring leader out.

She never made it.

Rough hands caught her, jerking her backwards, and her head cracked against the concrete floor with an audible thud.

She blacked out for a moment and when she came to, she was being straddled by Cameron, the woman's hands around her neck, doing her damnedest to choke her to death.

Lisbon fought, struggled, but with bound hands, a definite disadvantage in body weight, and a rapidly dwindling oxygen supply, it quickly became a futile effort.

"Wait!" he heard Jane's voice and it seemed dim, funny in her ears.

She realized she was close to the edge of consciousness.

"Wait!" he said again. "I'll give you the names. But only if you leave her alone."

Suddenly, she could breathe again, her battered windpipe greedily sucking in all she could get. It hurt, but it was a wonderful kind of pain.

She rolled to her side, vision swimming, but eventually she could find Jane.

He was on his knees, looking desperate and afraid.

And she knew it wasn't fear for himself. Left to his own devices, Jane would be charming and sarcastic until the end. But it wasn't his life at stake, not solely.

Cameron's demeanor was restless, annoyed, and Lisbon knew she wouldn't play games with Jane for long.

"Well, Mr. Jane?" she asked. "The names. I don't have a great deal of time to spare at the moment."

Something changed in Jane's expression, and Lisbon knew him well enough to realize he had found a weakness, a flaw in her plan. She had no idea what that might be, but all she could do now was pray Jane could exploit it enough to save their lives.

For the first time since they had been brought to the warehouse, she had a faint stirring of hope that she would leave it in something other than a body bag.

"Gabe Mancini," Jane said, and then her vision swam for a second, the noise around her become fuzzy. Laying on her side, everything was tilted, and she wondered if she was going to be sick. She struggled to focus on Jane.

"Mancini?" Cameron asked, tone flat and skeptical. "Smith's partner. Definitely not Blake. Don't you think we would have known?"

"I doubt it," Jane returned evenly, eyes flicking to where she was sprawled once. "I get the impression most of the people in the Blake Association didn't know each other. But think about it - did you know Reede Smith? Ever met the guy? Do you really think he could have pulled off some of his assignments without some ample help?"

Cameron said nothing, and Lisbon hoped that meant she was thinking about it.

"Mancini got Lisbon to play poker with him," Jane went on. "The members of that little club all wound up being Blake." That much was true, she had discovered that as the entire law enforcement community in California had fallen apart. It had been a heavy shock to her. But Mancini had been cleared of all involvement. He'd actually come to see her, looking defeated and utterly beside himself.

Perhaps she was the only one who knew that, though.

"It bears looking into," Cameron finally conceded, and Lisbon tried not to close her eyes in relief. "More, Mr. Jane."

Jane's expression never faltered, never changed. "Jason Cooper, current leader of Visualize. He's a big name. A whale, if you will. Lots of power. Lots of minions."

Cameron smiled, and it was not reassuring. "We kept very careful tabs on Visualize members, Mr. Jane. Cooper is not one of ours."

"No?" Jane countered. "So it was just a coincidence that Bret Stiles, who was definitely not Blake, occasionally knew what Red John was going to do before it happened? Someone told him. Someone that Stiles trusted enough to take the information at face value. I can think of about two people who qualify for that, and the other one is me."

If she didn't know better, Lisbon would actually believe the statement.

Cameron's eyes glanced at the window again, and Jane tried to rotate his bound wrists. On his right one, his watch flashed under the fluorescent lights.

His watch. She suddenly thought.

With the GPS tracker.

He was stalling.

He'd noticed something else, too, something that made him continue to talk.

She took a second to pray, feeling almost ashamed that she had waited so long to think to do it. The words in her head wouldn't come though, and all her frightened mind could come up with was "please." Over and over again.

Carefully, tentatively, she shifted, trying to get into some position that approached readiness.

Jane never looked at her, and she got the feeling he was trying to divert attention from her at all costs.

It didn't work.

A knee pressed into her back, effectively pinning her down, and she gritted her teeth, making a mental note to shoot Thomas if the opportunity arose. One of his beefy hands cupped her ass.

"Anyone else you'd like to add?" Cameron asked.

"Stop," Lisbon said, voice strained. "Don't tell her anything else, Jane. She's going to kill us anyway. Don't you dare give her a get out of jail free card with those names."

She met his gaze, and she saw the flare of love and pride that she'd caught on to his game.

"Lisbon," he said, "there are some things that I just can't endure. And," he went on, voice hitching in a way that would have convinced anyone but her, "the more I talk, the longer we live."

"But they'll just kill us anyway," she argued. It was hard to breathe like this, and it was not a struggle to make herself sound terrified.

Jane nodded, and she swore she saw a tear slide down his cheek. "I know. But I would rather it be over quickly, in the end. For both of us."

Her own eyes overflowed, tears spilling onto the dirty floor.

For a split second, Jane's eyes widened, trying to tell her something. Then he began speaking again, a shade louder than before, giving detailed profiles of another two fake members of the Blake Association.

She watched, breath coming in short pants, and she saw his fingers tap against his watch.

Suddenly, she understood.

Their backup was here. He was talking loudly, trying to provide a cover for their noise. She figured nearly two minutes had passed since he'd started. Plenty of time for a trained team to get in place.

It was her turn to help.

Without much effort, she started to cry. Loudly.

Everyone's attention directed at her, she made sure of it. Her wheezy sobs, coughs, and wails made her the brief focal point of all in the warehouse.

"Can't you shut her up?" Cameron asked after a minute, looking disgusted.

"Can I sit by her?" Jane interrupted. "I know it won't make any difference in the end, not to you, but I'd like to at least have the opportunity to die next to her." There was real emotion in his words, and with a a jerk of her head, Cameron authorized the move.

Thomas removed his knee, wrenched her up. His grip wasn't as tight as it should be.

And, well, she wasn't the youngest person to lead a CBI team for nothing.

She waited until Jane was less than a yard from her, then she purposely stumbled, as if her knees were going out. Thomas lunged to catch her, but Jane, knowing what she was going to do, stepped in the way, and she twisted on the cold concrete, fingers scrabbling in the confusion, reaching for something she couldn't see since her damn hands were tied behind her back.

She had perhaps five seconds.

Four.

The fabric of Jane's pants brushed her skin, and she slid her hands down, finally, finally finding cold metal.

It was harder than hell to aim a gun behind her back while on the floor, but she knew she didn't have to aim well. Just so she didn't kill Jane.

Three.

As soon as he felt the gun release from the holster, Jane moved sharply out of her way, his abrupt movement causing the eyes to follow him.

Two.

She cocked the gun.

One.

And fired blindly, body twisted around as best she could. She kept pulling the trigger until she heard another crash behind her.

Reinforcements. Just waiting for the right moment.

Then she threw herself to the side, inching across the floor until she found cover behind a low wall of crates.

It was over in a hail of bullets and shouting, and she took a beat to violently hope someone had killed Thomas.

A voice was calling her name, and, ears still ringing from the gunfire, it took a second for her to realize it was Jane. "I'm okay!" she shouted, voice rasping.

In another moment, he was at her side, hands free.

And then she was in his arms, face pressed against his neck.

"It's alright," he whispered over and over. "I love you, it's alright."

Fischer found them eventually, swiftly cutting through the zip ties that still bound her wrists.

"Are you okay?" the other woman demanded, carefully looking her up and down. "Jesus, Lisbon. You need to get some medical attention."

"It looks worse than it is," she said, almost automatically. In truth, she had no idea.

"I don't care," Kim told her, and there was no room for argument. "An ambulance has been called, and you will absolutely be taking a ride in it."

"Yes," Jane agreed. "She will be."

Lisbon looked at him with something approaching betrayal.

"Hush," he told her, and she heard the worry.

He rode with her to the hospital, was already waiting for her when she was wheeled into the room she'd be spending the night in. For observation, whatever that meant.

She'd caught sight of herself once after they arrived, and she was a little shocked. There was dried blood all over her face, her neck a mess of angry bruises, the purple visible even under the layer of dirt that coated her.

In another hour, the nurses had left, and she was beyond exhausted. She'd had her face and hands washed as best she could, and Jane had helped where she'd let him. The sheets were clean, and the bed, while not soft by normal standards, was heavenly in comparison to a warehouse floor that she had been fairly convinced she was going to die on.

Jane was in a pink vinyl recliner, looking nearly as tired as she felt. Still, he stood, finding the various light switches.

"Come here," she whispered, shifting over to one side of the small bed.

He hesitated. "I don't want to hurt you. And you need to sleep." But there was yearning in his expression.

"You won't hurt me," she told him. "And I'll sleep better if you're close."

He held her eyes for a moment more, then relented, shrugging off his jacket and carefully crawling into bed beside her.

She snuggled into his embrace, relishing the warmth, the security she felt.

Jane kissed her forehead. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she told him, just as quietly. "But not tonight."

"Alright," he replied.

And that was enough.

She was asleep in mere minutes, arms around his waist, remembering at the last second to be grateful to God for her deliverance.

She should have said some sort of Our Father or a Glory Be, but the best she could manage was just "thank you."

She hoped it got the message across.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Ultra Violet**_

_**Chapter Eleven**_

Jane woke up in the middle of the night, his back aching from sleeping awkwardly in the hospital bed with Teresa. He got up, stretched, and sat back in the ugly vinyl chair.

Teresa's face was swollen, her lip split in two different places. A huge purple bruise spread from her lower lip all the way to her jaw. Her arm was resting across her stomach and he saw a red welt bracleting her wrist from where the handcuffs had been.

For a moment he was irrationally, blindingly angry. The thought of anyone hurting Lisbon made him want to smash things, to shout.

He knew that there would be times in their relationship when he could not protect her, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Teresa was a tough woman, more than capable of handling her own, but when he thought of what she almost endured…when he thought about Thomas's tongue brushing her skin, he wanted to vomit.

He got up to stretch his legs and nearly ran into Fischer in the hall.

"How's she doing?" Kim asked, her dark eyes concerned.

"Sleeping," he said. "They gave her some good pain medication. She's a little battered, but she'll live. She doesn't seem very traumatized, considering."

Fischer crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She was still wearing her navy suit jacket and she looked tired. "Thomas Padrov is dead. One of the bullets Lisbon fired pierced his lung. The EMTs weren't able to get to him in time."

Jane wondered if they'd been deliberately delayed by Fischer, and secretly hoped so.

"He was a mid-level thug," Fischer continued. "We have Sarah Cameron in custody. She's not talking. The woman is probably insane."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Jane said. "The Blake Association seems to attract psychos."

"One more thing," Fischer said quietly. "Pike is on his way. I tried stalling him, but he took the FBI jet. He'll be here any minute."

Jane didn't anything. Somewhere down the hall a loud beeping sound sent nurses scrambling into a room.

"I'm not dumb, Jane, or blind," Kim continued. "I figured you'd want the warning."

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"For what it's worth," she continued, "I'm happy you're together. We all are."

"All?" he asked.

"Well, Wylie, Cho and I. Cho said something like, 'about damn time,' and 'worse than Risgby.'""

He smiled despite himself. He let Kim check in on Lisbon and wandered down to the cafeteria. The selection was limited, but he was starving. He ate some chocolate pudding and a banana, drinking a cup of terrible Lipton tea. He purchased some ice cream for Lisbon and stole an ice pack from a nurse's station on his way back to her room.

She was sitting up watching an all-night news station when he returned. The shooting had made national news. Helicopters were circling the building where they had been held, filming as FBI agents came and went.

He handed her the ice cream and the icepack. She let the vanilla soft serve melt, but held the ice to her swollen face gratefully. She winced, and he flinched inside.

"Sore?" he asked. "I can make sure they give you more medicine."

"I'll live, Jane," she said, "It's just a fat lip."

"Thomas is dead," Jane said. "You shot him."

"I know," she replied. "Kim told me."

"Then she told you about Pike?" he asked, sitting down on the end of the bed.

"Yeah." Teresa looked out the window, a guilty expression crossing her face. "I'm not looking forward to that conversation."

"I can tell him," Jane offered.

She gave him a dark look. "I'm a big girl, Jane."

He reached out and took her hand from where it lay beside her. He ran his thumb over the knuckles, ignoring the purpling mark around her wrist. He traced the faux wedding band on her finger.

"What would you say if I wanted this to stay there?" he asked quietly, afraid to look up at her.

"Well, my hands are pretty swollen so it's not coming off soon," she replied dryly.

"I'm serious," he said, looking up.

Her expression changed from joking to dead serious in an instant. "Jane." She licked her lips. "Patrick, we've only just…"

The sound of her using his given name made him smile, just a little. "We've only just admitted what we've felt for years," he said. "The thing is… I don't think I want to spend another day without you."

Her eyes were large and a little watery.

"I almost lost you today," he continued. "And I don't want to squander a minute of this. I know it's fast, but we can just go to a courthouse, and later, if you want a ceremony…"

"Patrick," she said.

His chest felt tight.

"I'm not living in the Airstream," she replied softly. "Just so you know."

He felt a smile forming on his face, one so large he couldn't keep it at bay. "Does that mean yes?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied coyly. "Depends on what you're asking."

He sank to the floor immediately, still holding her hand. "Teresa Lisbon, will you marry me?" he asked quickly.

She smiled at him as best she could around her bruise. "Against my better judgment, yes."

He rose and pressed a soft kiss to the uninjured side of her mouth, then to her head. "I promise to get you a real ring," he said. "White gold or yellow? Or platinum? How do you feel about emerald cut? Do you want a big wedding or a small one? I'll join the church if you want." He felt like a child on a sugar high, hardly able to contain his excitement.

She closed her eyes, laughing a little. "I want eight hours of sleep and a Percocet."

He grinned, kissed her again. "Of course."

There was a cough from the door, and he turned to see Pike hovering, looking both stricken and angry. Teresa squeezed his hand. "Give us a moment, Jane."

"Are you sure?" He wanted to do this for her, spare her the pain.

"_Jane._"

He glanced at her, her expression stern.

He let go of her hand hesitantly, passing Pike and waiting in the hall. He hovered outside her door, anxious, afraid that at the last minute Teresa would change her mind. The minutes ticked by, feeling like hours. The hospital was too quiet now. He started tapping his foot.

There was an unsettling lack of shouting coming from the room. Maybe she'd said yes because she was tired or because of the adrenaline or pain medication. Maybe Pike was making a better offer.

When Marcus came out, he looked surprisingly composed. Jane's pulse sped up.

"I just want to say—" Jane began.

Marcus's fist connected with his jaw with a loud crack. He saw stars, stumbled back.

The other agent didn't say anything, just stalked away. Jane held his face, feeling strangely relieved. A nearby nurse quirked an eyebrow at him, but it must not have been the strangest thing she'd ever seen because she went back to work once she realized a fight wasn't imminent.

Jane walked back into Teresa's room. "Well, we have his and hers bruises now," he said, picking up the ice pack she'd set down.

"He really hit you?" she asked, surprised.

"I had it coming," he replied. "What did you tell him?"

"That I realized I'd been in love with you all along," she replied. "That I was sorry."

He settled down next to her on the bed. "So, where should we go tomorrow?"

She snuggled next to him, her head against his shoulder. "Back to Texas, I suppose."

"Nah, we've earned some time off."

"Just take me someplace special then," she murmured, starting to fall asleep.

He smiled, wincing as he did so, and kissed her head.

X X X

They married on the beach in Venezuela. It wasn't a legal wedding—not yet—but the exchange of rings meant something to them.

They stayed at a nice hotel, not the ramshackle apartment he called home. Walking with Lisbon along familiar beaches somehow washed away the loneliness he'd felt during his isolation there. He made new memories at all of his favorite places, made to love to her in all the secret beaches and coves where he had once dreamed of doing so. The found cowrie shells and ate eggs and tea, drank cerveza and danced.

People looked at them a little strangely, two tourists with bruises, but they explained them away as the result of a car accident.

One night, as they walked along the ocean, watching the sun go down, she said, "I'd like a small wedding. Just family. My brothers, and our CBI family."

He squeezed her hand, the one that wore the diamond engagement ring he'd bought her. "I'd like that," he said.

The truth was, he didn't care about the wedding, just the ever after. And as he kissed her, toes digging into the cool sand, he figured he had a lot to look forward to.

**Thank you for sticking with Starry and I as we wrote this story. Please consider leaving a review. We'd love to hear from you!**


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